


when you love from that same hour (your peace you put into your lover’s power)

by nominormiracle



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: F/F, it's my party and i'll have adverbs if i want to
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2019-10-26 18:27:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 60,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17751179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nominormiracle/pseuds/nominormiracle
Summary: "Where was last year’s rose now? Surely wilted, then turned to dust under the heavy footfalls of time. Such things were not meant to last more than a night, most beautiful when already plucked from their lifeforce..."Charlotte and Isabella reunite at the Pleasure Gardens and slowly come to find that their separate wounds are more suited to the other's than they'd once thought.





	1. False Heat

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how long this will be and I take responsibility for the myriad historical inaccuracies. Mostly, I just feel like sketching out these two women. There will be a plot, but it will likely be a soft-spoken one. Come for the Georgian lesbianism, stay for the sprawling character studies.

 

The sun tricked Charlotte that morning. So late in the season already, she should’ve recognized - as one spotting a foe thought vanquished across the London yard - the deceiving, October light that filtered through her window. Ensconced as she was at daybreak in streaks of white, bright sun, she’d chosen the linen chemise and silk weave gown from her wardrobe: a porous and sensuous dress made for summer days and nights. A mere sigh could run right through it.

 

As though she might’ve convinced herself that only time would freeze now with Ma gone, that the season’s unending churn would not turn again on its spindle without her, Charlotte resented these slippery days of late Summer. Particularly now, as she rushed past the marketstiles of Greek Street, each fresh gust of coming November raising goose pimples under her stays.

 

She passed the inn, where only old sops drank at this hour. Beyond the darkened doorway, Charlotte made out the silhouette of a slouched barmaid through a tumbling of dusky air that otherwise obscured the tragic faces. If it were any other night, Charlotte might find herself perched on one of those stools in a few hours, bearing witness to the inn’s transformation from dim to scarlet ruckus. She might watch a brawl with Pa and pull a cull for old time’s sake.

 

But no, the season was ending, moment by fading moment as she tread the cool cobblestones. _Afar in unfair England’s muddy fields, men and women have done their picking a’plenty_ she thought. Great gourds and bushels of wheat loaded onto carts, marked in kilometers by the ringing of church bells on country roads, then converged into the heaving mass of harvest markets: town folk come to London making their measly pennies for the long winter.

 

Charlotte rarely pondered on the country. Reared by London soot and parodies of nature - gardens and their fountains, not hills and their valleyed lakes - she was perversely comforted by the sights and sounds of Soho. She knew no other landscape than this: the unwieldy sprawl of rickety doorways and sloped roofs, the siren calls of harlots hunting their tuppence from dawn till dusk. Worldly as she was in the eyes of her prized culls, Charlotte had rarely been beyond the city limits. What she knew of England beyond London’s dirty sweep, she knew only from books and stories droned from the mouths of genteel culls, men who got off on having country homes in which to pretend fidelity to their wives.

 

Where the air had been syrupy with golden heat just last week at this hour, a now indigo dusk chased Charlotte through the door and past the parlor where Sukey and the other girls were laughing round a few fingers of gin. Lucy, now the prize jewel of Greek Street, whose beauty and wit were rumored to have brought down Lord Fallon with a mere prick to his broken heart, must’ve been upstairs attending to this or that business. As Charlotte passed the second floor, her suspicion was confirmed by some noisy grunting.

 

Charlotte rarely took culls these days, preoccupied instead by rent payments, hypocritical justices, and warding off competition from the newly revitalized Golden Square (now under the tutelage of Anne Pettifer, who only _played_ at Lydia’s ruthlessness). Being a bawd didn’t suit Charlotte, but it suited the pockets of her girls who - as advised under her expertise - were now pulling wealthier and wealthier culls. The spectre of Margaret’s reputation for murder and mayhem lingered in the house’s blue walls, attracting exceptionally dull men with exceptionally fat wallets - their interests peaked by the invisible bloodstains left by murdered and murderess alike.

 

Charlotte crossed the third floor landing. In the room that Jacob now shared with Will, the boy sat practicing his penmanship at the low desk. Charlotte smiled as she listened to the soft scratch of the quill against parchment. “Hullo minnow,” she said as she tapped on the door before entering. Charlotte was cautious now with Jacob, who had grown distant and prone to fits of rage after Ma’s departure. He’d sprouted up in the last year, but his limbs were willowy, his face too thin with despair. He was eerily quiet and calm most days, sloping slowly up and down Greek Street, kicking a stone or swinging his arms, before returning to his post at the door. The aimless circularity of his motions outside betrayed his behavior indoors. At all hours of the day and night, the girls could hear the slamming of doors and the heavy thuds of furniture being shoved.

 

Pa was at a loss. His attempts to comfort the boy went unacknowledged. Only in the darkest hour of the night, the two of them huddled in the same bed, would Jacob accept his father’s words of solace, all while feigning sleep. Unlike Charlotte, Nance, and Lucy who’d found relief in the revelation that Margaret was not hanged, simply banished to the colonies, Jacob’s mood had worsened, not improved.

 

The boy looked up, craning his head back toward Charlotte, quill aloft. “Charlotte, will you not join the girls downstairs,” he asked, just as another chorus of giggles arose. “I’d much rather talk to you, little one.” Charlotte came to stand over his shoulder, looking down at the catscratch writing below: _Margaret_ _Charlotte Lucy Will_. He had written each of their names at least 20 times, as though trying to imprint the shape of the letters into the desk below. “You’re getting quite fancy with your capitals, aren’t you?” Jacob pressed his lips together into a thin line, saying nothing, and then returned to his parchment.

 

Charlotte thought he was bright. Not in the way she and Lucy were, not witty and calculated with what they deigned to know to gain favor. Jacob had a genuine love for the few personal studies he could afford. Charlotte, a shockingly devout reader, had terrible penmanship and limited interest in the arts. Lucy had a talent for instruments, principally the harpsichord, but found herself at a loss when it came to verse or history. The two only exercised these intellects when present company demanded it, their business so taxing that the bliss of a slated mind at the end of a day was a welcome sin.

 

Such was their station in life, settled at birth. Charlotte had once dreamed of having a tutor or attending a proper school. At 12 or 13, when Ma first sent her out into the tamed neighborhoods of Chelsea or St James’s for culls, she would occasionally catch a glimpse of some school girls making their way back to their dormitories or spot a governess sat with a young lady beyond a garden wall. Compelled by jealousy perhaps, Charlotte would scoff and remind herself what a bore that life would be: to sit all day doing arithmetic or reading history with nothing more to do than absorb the stories of others. When there was drink to be had and money to be made, why bother with these slow frivolities? Even the opera and ballet tired her, the few times she readily attended. There was the brief flare of costuming, the swell of music, and then three hours or more of shoving away the willful cull’s hand while pretending to care about the tragedies on stage.            

 

And anyway, the women of operas and ballets were sad at best, insulting at worst: virginal maids drawn to misery or tempestuous whores best thwarted by story’s end. Charlotte preferred the characters in books, particularly those of Mr. Jonathan Swift whose giants and miniatures, both grotesque and hilarious, delighted her. The dignified horsemen of Gulliver’s final journey reminded her quite uncannily of George Howard and his grating friends. She’d nicked a copy of A Tale of a Tub from a cull’s shelf not long back and now kept it under her pillow for ready entertainment. She thought that Ms. Scanwell would do well to read it or rather, have it read to her by Amelia. Granted, Charlotte couldn’t imagine that Amelia would even consider it. Maybe she’d have Violet slip it to her in jest.

 

Upstairs in her room, Charlotte lit the lamps and surveyed the sparse chaos. On her desk were slips of paper belonging to this or that dreary task. Her stationery and inkwell, to the right, gathered dust from her lack of correspondence. Nancy had suggested she write letters to Ma, if only for the exorcism of those demons, knowing that they would never be delivered. But the catharsis of the act was not worth reigniting her ire and despair. Now was not the night to start, besides, as the season was indeed ending, which meant one thing in high London circles: the Pleasure Gardens.

 

Down on the street below her window, Charlotte imagined the sustained gossip of lowly folk without invitation or prospects, how they would titter over the mayhem of aristocrats in concealed gardens. It’s just _fucking among the statuary_ as though doing it against a dirty wall were really any different. The girls’ laughter downstairs had long since dissipated, each of them having returned to their quarters to select gowns and wigs, and apply scented oils between their thighs. It was big business, the Pleasure Gardens… Charlotte remembered well how just last year Lydia had blackmailed and bribed her way into the event. A harlot’s usual fees could be doubled, tripled even in one night, if she were to catch the eye of the right cull. Or, at least, his hand.

 

She’d been dreading it. Maybe that’s why she’d worn the wrong dress that morning, insistent on a delusion that Autumn would never arrive. Last year, she’d certainly made out well with her 100 guineas. She had her portion of them still, squirreled away for Jacob when he reached 16. It wouldn’t have felt right, spending that money herself, knowing where it had come from, _who it really belonged to_. Somewhere, pink roses were being gathered by servants and planted along lamplit walkways around a glistening stretch of black water. In her mind’s eye, she saw a single rose, petals delicate and on the verge of tearing away from the stem, blushing against a white hand, a long finger curled between the thorns. The line of that hand ran into a slim, strong wrist, and beyond that a name and face Charlotte preferred to banish from even her imagination.

 

Where was last year’s rose now? Surely wilted, then turned to dust under the heavy footfalls of time. Such things were not meant to last more than a night, most beautiful when already plucked from their life force. _Isabella_ , Charlotte thought, _was much the same_. And how that night changed everything: a stroke of impassioned honesty that took her mother from her, a thousand strokes of passionate hands that had taken something else entirely. To lose like that without even realizing it made Charlotte feel a fool, her entire life as she knew it disintegrating within hours.

 

A quick rap at the door found Lucy crossing the threshold and sprawling herself across Charlotte’s bed. “How was he,” Charlotte asked, an ache forming between her eyes. “Rich and dull. Surprising stamina though.” Lucy ran her hand across duvet, then looked up at Charlotte where she sat, slumped against her desk, hand covering her eyes. “What’s wrong with you? I’m the one who’s been working.”

 

Charlotte lifted her hand and looked down at her sister. “Long night ahead of us…” Lucy laughed: “I never thought you’d tire of the gilded peerage.” “Tired might not be the right word…” Charlotte turned back toward her desk.

 

Lucy, who’d been in the clutches of the depraved Lord Fallon this time last year, knew little of Charlotte’s connection to Isabella, only that the woman had betrayed their trust in favor of her family’s reputation. She’d not seen how the two women moved while in the same room. How their bodies, careful as though stood on a precipice, still gravitated ceaselessly towards the other. Even in the shock of Margaret’s “death,” a touch of Isabella’s hand could still the swirling within her, exposing the anguish at Charlotte’s core. At the time, that anguish had been the only leg she could stand on. Otherwise, she would’ve fallen to the floor at the Lady’s feet, never to rise again.

 

“What’s got you in this state then? Ma?” Lucy sat up, swinging her legs off the bed’s end. “I’m in no state, just dreading a night’s work same as usual.”

 

“Well, it’s not like you’ll be doing the hard labor, Charlotte.”

 

“Conversation with these people is a whoring in and of itself. You know that.”

 

Lucy laughed then stood to leave. “Well, best get on my gown then. Carriage will be here in just an hour.” Charlotte nodded, her face grim enough to make Lucy laugh again. Left alone in her chilly room, she considered the gowns before her. One, a pastel blush, was made of crinoline. Though sturdy, the pink hue reminded her again of the rose and despite her better judgment, she drew it from the armoire.

 

At the small dressing table, Charlotte applied her powders, as yet leaving her tallest white wig upon its stand. She was a ghost in the mirror’s reflection, a shadow of the personality that had once gripped London’s proverbial scrotum in its clutches. Lucy had been half-right: she was tired, exhausted even, by the circularity of her pesky thoughts and the weight of her responsibilities. And, unacknowledged: her guilt.  

 

The carriage arrived with unseemly timeliness. As she descended the stairs, Charlotte worried they might be too early, left in the uncomfortable and penniless position of charming men who went on to fuck other women in their drunken stupors. There was priming and then there was transaction: a successful harlot must know how to balance the scales, use one mechanism to trigger the other.

 

Out front, Pa and Jacob stood to one side. Will’s eyes were joking, complimenting each powdered girl as she passed, wishing her luck on the night’s gambit. Jacob, quiet as ever, did not look at them. Instead, he kept his eyes turned toward the darkest end of Greek Street where the sad shapes of beggars slowly emerged from shadows. Charlotte frowned, worried, but without the time to fret over it.

 

One after the other, the girls filed into the carriage. Charlotte pulled the curtain on her side, pressed closely into Lucy’s arm, and shut her eyes. Hannah on the right-hand side had hers wide open, remarking on each new neighborhood they passed as though they were foreign lands, not a stone’s throw from Greek Street. Soon, the streets began to thin out, the houses growing further apart. Tall trees lined the roads here and Charlotte’s sense of foreboding crept like a vine up her back. It was all too familiar: how many times had she taken this path to courier veiled threats or ask a favor? The house they were hurtling towards in their horse-drawn carriage was thrice haunted: first by its owner, second the violence therein, and finally by Charlotte’s own traitorous heart.


	2. Eden, Unmasked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabella returns to her gilded cage

Isabella had vowed never to walk these halls and gardens again. That day, toe to toe with her despicable brother on the wide veranda, the manicured lawns and her daughter witness to her weary treachery, she’d taken a last sweep of the view and departed, eyes forward and hand tight in Sophia’s. The carriage carried them past the marble gates and down the same sprawl-bound streets that had led her to Greek Street. Isabella, who never cared for the city proper herself, couldn’t help but recall the trepidation she’d felt that night. And the excitement, but she had tamped down on that too.

 

Harcourt spent much of his time away from the house, purchasing his violent delights in brothels and gambling away at all hours. He made frequent visits to the city-locked estates of fiendish friends, drinking and devouring their ancestral resources. So unlike father, who’d preferred silence and serenity in his nights, Harcourt’s immaturity knew no bounds: always loud, boisterous, and making snide comments to the young maids.

 

But there was no one he tortured like Isabella. Even in a room of dozens, Harcourt would find a way to enact his needling with eyes or sneering mouth. He lavished the beau monde with stories of Isabella’s ineptitude, as though she were just a girl, unable to string a sentence together. Isabella, trained as she was in the controlled charm of her station, knew how to walk and talk among typical company. She changed the register of her voice: higher, to be seen as a feminine force. Her back, straight as a rod, put her a head or more above the other ladies and quite a few of the men. She _was_ a presence, though internally she felt herself a shadow. Not even that…. a wisp of a woman for so many years, unable to grasp at any one of her feelings beyond disgust or despair.

 

Just a year ago, the ground below her feet - frozen and unyielding - began to shift, as though the cold soil she’d been reared in was producing new life, green stalks bursting with promise. Unused to feeling nourished, so accustomed to the chilliness of her hardened home and heart, Isabella was terrified: first, by the return of Lydia Quigley to her life, but more so by Lydia’s aide. Charlotte Wells, a fixture of the gossiping peerage, had been initials on a circular, nothing more than a flat description of sexuality and scandal on Mr. Harris’ list. Harlots were in Isabella’s mind then - by design - to be lauded and stoned by the hands of aristocracy. Fascinators and toys, women who were hardly women, though Isabella herself often felt the same disavowment from her sex, her body rendered foreign to her. Her mind struggled to conceive, in adolescence, of her growing chest and widening hips; womanhood had descended like a curse, a process not unlike an infection.

 

She’d been hardly ripened, one afternoon, when Harcourt let himself as he was wont to do into her rooms, feigning interest in a book. Harcourt did not read, a red flag if there ever were one, but Isabella knew better than to test his patience. He was king of the house, even more than father who after failed attempts, generally turned a blind eye to Harcourt’s conduct. It was more trouble than it was worth to curtail his son’s less seemly qualities; father tried to keep Harcourt’s exploits private at the very least.

 

And so it was with Isabella’s damnation. The blood spotted sheets were whisked off, same as any other day, and the bruises on arms and thighs faded. As Isabella’s belly swelled, her father continued in his way, persisted in his self-denial. A hereditary link in their weaknesses, Isabella and her father, alike in their unwillingness to face themselves for fear of the hatred they’d inevitably feel. Harcourt, the opposite, revelled in his worst instincts and commonly got away with it. No more than a slap on the wrist: a year spent in France among the riches of distant family. Isabella, who had never been to Paris, imagined the paths his feet tread, where the sole of his shoe might trample small and helpless things.

 

Meanwhile, Isabella - to public knowledge - suffered a bout of pneumonia with some severe complications. Kept to her quarters in the estate, she had only her books and her ladymaids to keep her company. And even they, sweet as could be, bristled at the sight of her stomach. Dutifully, they curtsied and emptied chamber pots of her frequent sickness, but they were not true friends. The difference in stations and their fear of Harcourt kept Isabella isolated even from those paid to care for her as best they could.

 

As the months ensued, her closest friend (first to her horror and then to her growing affection) was the child within her. Her first kicks were more like bruised echoes of that baser fear, but quickly transformed into private treasures, small moments when Isabella felt the only connection to her body she had left. The baby was a reminder that Isabella still lived and breathed, that she could transmit what little light she had within her to another. When Sophia arrived, bloody and perfect, Isabella’s limbs relaxed at last. It was as though the delivery, the ripping of flesh in the service of a higher purpose, instead of disgust and deception, had liberated her - however briefly - from the vice-like shaking of her bones. And the child, though born of wretched circumstances, was beautiful: vibrant in her wailing and kicking legs.

 

Isabella had just three days with Sophia before her father, scant in his visits during her pregnancy, strode in one morning, a woman trailing behind him. The woman she would come to know as a poisonous thorn in her side - Lydia Quigley - wafted an air of menace, her wig overly powdered, rouge garish and bordering on parodic. Her smile, obviously false, suggested ulterior motives before even a proper introduction.

 

“A beautiful girl, you have there. Quite a strong family resemblance, yes?” Lydia smirked, lifting a wrinkled hand toward Sophia’s head. Isabella shifted back in her bed, feeling vulnerable. There was something diseased about Lydia’s presence, as though she brought with her spores of the pox, invisible and intelligent in their ability to bring one down from the inside out.

 

“Lydia, at my bequest, has offered to take the child somewhere safe... So that you may return to your schooling,” her father said. He refused to acknowledge Sophia’s name or even look at her, lest his disgust reveal itself. What he really meant was: Isabella must return to the world, his world: the whirling Beau Monde where he would parade her around like a prize jewel, marry her off to some faceless aristocrat whose fortune would best compliment hers. Isabella, always resentful of that destined arc in her life, at least would be safe then from Harcourt’s clutches. Her father was right: only marriage would protect her from her brother’s whims. And by melding her money with a man’s, she would be protected for life.

 

So was the transactional nature of men’s minds. She’d accused Charlotte of selling herself, in a moment of self-loathing and (though pained to admit it) jealousy. But it was she who grew up with no control, monetized by her father and brother, forming her personality and charms around whichever gestures might gain her favor: the best gowns, jewelry, parties.

 

Her self worth, while measured in guineas or thousands of pounds instead of pocket coinage, surely paled in comparison to Charlotte’s. Charlotte, who spoke one night as Isabella and Sophia hid away in the house on Greek Street, of her virginity, bought when she was just twelve. Charlotte, who’d been suckled in Golden Square while her mother suffered Lydia’s abuse. Charlotte, though beaten down herself by cruelty, held her head high, a symbol of that tantalizing inner strength.

 

Charlotte, who had beguiled Isabella, who haunted her every waking and sleeping dream. To say that Isabella thought of her often was an understatement. In the pleasures she took now: a ride with Sophia through the park, a walk around the modest gardens of her new home, the books she read at leisure - free of her brother’s interruptions, she recognized Charlotte’s light within her. And though her guilt wracked her nerves, sent her sputtering awake with nightmares of Harcourt’s hands around Charlotte’s throat (never her own), she couldn’t help but ruminate on her memories of the young woman.

 

Her entire life, even before the damnation, she’d been at a remove from those around her. Amorphous and undecided in herself, she rarely felt _seen_ by others. Perhaps it was the lack of loving mother (or any mother) or Harcourt’s manipulative attentions, but Isabella’s sense of self was fractured, scattered into bits and pieces of what men desired of her. Charlotte, though in the profession of fulfilling men’s perversities, was whole and true: moral and courageous to a fault. Never once had Isabella doubted Charlotte’s offer of alliance. Even in that moment of weakness, jealousy bleeding into her accusatory posture, she’d quickly forgiven the perceived slight. She’d seen the truth of Charlotte’s mission in her eyes and the drive for justice.

 

Isabella could not look away once she’d seen Charlotte. What had enchanted (eyes, lips, an alabaster neck) simply concealed the true fire beneath the visage. The combination, altogether intoxicating and terrifying in equal parts, kept Isabella rapt to Charlotte’s every expression. So planted in her mind, Charlotte’s face even in memory was a balm on Isabella’s hardest days. When the physical spectre of her brother’s violence lurked in moments of solitude, when even Sophia’s kindly manner and surprising humor could not lift her mother’s spirits, it was the precious intimacies between Charlotte and herself, lost forever, that brought her back to life.

 

And now, with night descending and the peerage approaching, Isabella knew she ran the risk, however bittersweet, of seeing Charlotte again. She dare not hope for a sighting, unsure as to whether it would roil or soothe. Isabella could not bear to think of Charlotte’s anger with her, whether she could, in fact, despise Isabella now. Or worse: that she might pity her, think her weak for letting the noose fall from Harcourt’s neck… that she might think her no better than him, really, another person to betray her trust and affection.

 

Isabella had returned to this home and prison in Harcourt’s stead. He’d gone abroad, temporarily, to France, possibly to retread those same steps he’d taken so many years ago. While certainly the ringleader of the event, the Pleasure Gardens were a family affair: charting back to their parents’ generation, though those parties were far more polite than the ruckus which occurred under Harcourt’s orchestrations. The positive was that these things tended to run themselves; they simply needed someone to get them going. Drink, pastries, lamps and servants. Beyond that, the aristocracy could unravel at its own pace....and the other wares for sale? Well, women like Charlotte certainly had that handled.

 

Isabella walked the long stretch of grass along the eastern side of the reservoir. The tents were pitched, their lamps lit and tables lined with pink roses. As she came to the center table, the one where she and Harcourt sat each year, she couldn’t help but run a hand along the veined petals of a single rose. Flushing, she recalled the impulse to see Charlotte last year. At the time, under the guise of a tentative alliance borne of revenge, she’d sold herself as friendly not romantic. What was a rose between two women? (What was _anything_ between two women? Isabella, who’d agonized over that question for longer than a few years, had no answer still then.)

 

While Harcourt and his friend vied for Charlotte’s occupation, Isabella had quietly simmered. Sipping at her sherry, she’d resolved to save Charlotte from her brother’s cruelty, though selfishly she wanted the girl’s attentions focused once again on herself. _The sanctuary of female company_ , she’d called it. A bit of humor, all that she could afford herself under Harcourt’s watchful eye. Then, Charlotte’s arm warm in hers. For the first time, Isabella took personal stock: noticed the trembling of her fingers, not unusual though in that instant betraying her desire, father than fear. She was covetous in her gaze, not nearly careful enough with someone who could ruin her - in fact: had tried to do just that on their first meeting, however half heartedly, at Mrs Quigley’s bequest.

 

As the string quartets, sprinkled across the lawn and gardens, strummed up their first notes, Isabella fled up the stone stairway and into the all-too-familiar and empty parlor. Respite already necessary from the mere prospect of hosting. The revelation of a bastard daughter had cast her from the upper echelons of the very society whose arrival she now awaited. _Damn tradition_ she thought _for bringing these people back into my life_. Though raised to value reputation over all, Isabella relished her hard-fought loneliness. She’d never felt more alone, really, than sat among other well-heeled ladies, tittering over the false humors of lords and dukes.

 

This house, more like a mausoleum than a home, echoed with their voices. In the stillness, Isabella raised a hand to her forehead, covering her eyes. Already exhausted, yet unwilling to admit defeat in the face of a barren social schedule, Isabella was a true hypocrite. Sophia, now a year older, was only one year away from finishing school. Rapidly approaching the height of her wit, charm, and beauty, she would soon be of ripe marrying age. The trauma of Isabella’s shame could cast a long shadow, dashing the hopes of a young lady to be. Therefore, Izzy had no choice but to host this damn party, an opportunity to present Sophia to the world Isabella so reviled, one that had readily discarded her.

 

To her right, there was the rasp of a door opened. No knock. And thus, Sophia swept into the room, oddly at ease in Isabella’s former prison. Izzy couldn’t deny her such birthright comfort. After all, this is the estate where Sophia should’ve grown up, not the dreary but capable boarding school in Chelsea. Isabella often wondered what Sophia was like as a girl, hungry for stories of her first words or steps. Would she have been shy, reserved like her mother? Or rambunctious, audacious like…

 

“Mother, are you well?” Sophia took a seat beside her on the divan, immaculately dusted despite its recent disuse.

 

“Yes, just a bit lightheaded from the preparations.” Isabella mustered a smile for her daughter whose attention was turned toward a painting above the rococo mantelpiece.

 

“I imagine! It must be difficult to prepare for something like this and I don’t even know what to expect! Certainly, I’ve never attended a party like this one.” Sophia’s excitement bled life into Isabella’s tired bones, but underneath that excitement was obvious anxiety. Isabella reached a hand out and grasped Sophia’s, squeezing it twice in support.

 

“You needn’t worry. You’ll do well, so swimmingly that the young men will be dazzled, I’m sure.” Sophia, abashed, frowned in jest at Isabella. “Mother, I’m looking forward more to the music and cakes than the lords.” Isabella laughed: “Me too, darling.”

 

Sophia, vibrant and unapologetically young, carried herself with the assurance that she still had her youth in front of her. Her humor, which emerged easily and flowed like champagne around a social table, was pointed, but never cruel. In many ways, she reminded Isabella dearly of Charlotte and Isabella was perturbed to note that they weren’t so very far apart in age: four or five years at the most. Was Isabella’s weariness the product of her given birth year, the age that increasingly wore on her face in lines around her eyes and mouth. She’d struggled, always, to feel beautiful and when she did feel it, she resented it. And now, with her youth long behind her, she wasn’t sure that she missed it. Her coming middle age kept her invisible, allowed her moments of privacy in Harcourt’s crowded rooms. She spoke only when expected to and marked each hour by the passing of her waning attention. Always, she’d breathed easier when left alone.

 

Sophia, usually wigless in her natural curls, was coiffed today. Just old enough now to don a wig and full face of powder and rouge. Naturally flushed, her skin looked luminescent, unlike what Isabella imagined to be her own sickly pallor.

 

“Sophia, you do realize that some of what will occur tonight won’t be the prettiest sights?” Isabella sighed.

 

“If you mean harlotry mother, it’s hardly a shocking prospect after our stay in Soho last year…” Sophia’s good humor carried over to that harrowing week. She’d often attempted light jokes about their time on Greek Street (the mangled loaf of bread, how Isabella’s hairpiece had grown more and more askew as the days went by), but those asides recalled Charlotte and the hole left in Isabella’s core where she had been. Sophia, who was thankfully unaware of the nature of their true relationship, still sensed a well of despair in Isabella’s heart and hardly ever mentioned that time now.

 

Isabella looked up into her daughter’s eyes. “Of course.. But, remember it’s best to not get involved in all that. Have a nice time and then retire as soon as you feel exhausted or uncomfortable, okay?” Sophia nodded sagely, as though she could sense the shadow of her mother’s younger self - forced through backbreaking party after party till dawn came to numb her uneasy mind.

 

They both arose and parted ways with promises made to reunite at Isabella’s tent. She’d been careful with the invites this year, only choosing the safest of seatmates. No one from Harcourt’s inner-circle and no one who might scorn her and her daughter publicly. Returning to her quarters, Isabella pinned in place her tallest wig and adorned herself in precious, indigo jewels. Her gown, a royal blue, shimmered in the moonlight, but dared not draw too much attention to itself.

 

Striding back through the veranda doors, the eldest members of the peerage were already being seated by wigged ushers. From a distance, Isabella saw that her table was blissfully vacant so she eagerly swept past the few curious eyes and found a seat below the warm lamps overhead. It was chilly and the night’s breeze carried a promise of winter, waking Isabella from her state of half-attention. She was pleased to sit back and merely witness the inpouring attendees, watching how they started their curious flirtations, imbibing and questing further towards each other.

 

Sophia arrived at her side about half an hour later, accompanied by their selected guests: Lady Marston, twice widowed and with a sweet tooth for sherry; Sir James Fielden, a dandy in every sense of the word (never married, overly rouged), but always kind to Isabella; and Lady MacDower, whose Scottish lineage made her an outcast of her own in London. With them, they brought spouses, children (in the case of Lady Marston, a son who glanced curiously over at Sophia), and friends of similar standing. It was a pleasant, albeit boring crowd. Fielden commented on Sophia’s beauty, mentioning a number of eligible bachelors he might introduce her to. Sophia feigned polite interest in the prospect, but was genuinely delighted by Fielden’s whip smart wit. Satisfied that her daughter would thrive tonight, Isabella relaxed, leaning back to let her shoulder and neck muscles untense.

 

Then, like a premonition, her body alerted her to the presence of a ghost. Isabella spotted across the reservoir a group of young women. Adorned in garish, obvious gowns, they moved in neat procession, tittering among themselves. At the back of the group, like a rose bloomed at the witching hour, stood Charlotte in a blush gown. Fondly, she gazed after her girls, letting them run off to their duties. As yet unseen, Isabella allowed herself a moment to look, gaze: Charlotte was perhaps thinner than she remembered, no longer fed on Golden Square’s false luxuries. Her skin, the same alabaster, her back strong and straight like a frozen Artemis where Isabella knew her gown concealed the toned legs and shoulders. The wig atop her head was tall, but uniform. Isabella yearned to see Charlotte’s brunette hair as she remembered it: coiffed with one piece trailing down her neck, or coming undone, mussed and messy after exacting her revenge on Lydia, or (and this was the most precious vision) undone - no wig, no styling, and wildly curly as Isabella ran her fingers through it.

 

Time, it seemed, had come to a standstill. Around her, partygoers seemed to move in slow motion or not move at all, rendered irrelevant by Charlotte’s appearance. For a moment or two longer, Isabella stared. Then, as if feeling her gaze, Charlotte turned from her contemplations and looked back across the expanse. Deja vu or something like it gripped Isabella. She had no rose to proffer, no plot to scheme, only the sad creaking of her shoulders as she forced herself to look away, down at her lap where her hands wrung each other restlessly.

 

Away on the veranda, the footsmen lit firecrackers, one after the other, which ignited a round of joyful shouts from the partygoers. A few of Charlotte’s girls had spotted their stations, making flirtatious chat with the men. As each firework exploded above the estate’s pale roof, throwing sparks of colored light back at the faces below, Isabella stood up. Suddenly, unable to bear Charlotte’s sustained gaze, she squeezed Sophia’s shoulder and strode towards the house where only silence rang out and where she could escape Charlotte’s eyes and recollect herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will be posting chapters in batches as I write them, I suppose... All mistakes, per usual, are mine and protected under the copyright of embarrassment


	3. A Shattering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlotte and Isabella finally reunite and more questions are raised than answered.

Charlotte felt Isabella’s gaze before she met it. It was a singular sensation and there was only one person here who would look so intently at Charlotte. The peerage’s attention was on Lucy, naturally, who swanned her way from group to group before finding herself seated between a Duke and Duchess. At the center table, far calmer than last year, across the water, sat Lady Isabella. Every inch of her still a lady, from her tall wig to her deep blue gown, her jewels glittering under the lamplight. 

 

Somewhere to Charlotte’s left, ruby colored fireworks exploded to the entertained gasps of attendants below, but not a single one could catch her attention. She looked at Isabella for a moment, maybe two, before the elder woman rose and paced off towards the house. Almost as if…  _ how dare she avoid me _ , thought Charlotte, suddenly incensed all over again. She’d not been angry, per say, at the lady for several months now. Losing energy for it, her ire had turned to stone and then crumbled as the seasons progressed. The part of her that missed the lady’s company, that worried for her and her daughter, was like an imbedded thorn, a splinter in her heart that no scratching could uproot. And through that wound, all her anger had trickled out, leaving only sadness and regret. 

 

But, in seeing the lady refuse to acknowledge her, Charlotte felt that energy rushing back. Her cheeks flushed and she huffed as she turned on her heel towards the house. Past crowds of increasingly drunken buffoons, she counted off her girls, checking that each had a likely cull lined up, before storming silently up the marble steps and into the back hallway, which ran between the parlor and the dining room. Charlotte knew there were three main seating areas, but thought it unlikely that Isabella would be hiding in any of them. 

 

She never had the sense that Isabella much liked this house. When she learned of the woman’s incestuous abuse, it only solidified her early impression of a long lonely girl turned into a solitary woman, trapped in a cell, though a plush one. Charlotte shuddered to imagine Isabella’s decades here with her brother trawling the halls and grounds, desperate to ruffle her feathers and touching her as though she were one of his fine couches and nothing more. When Isabella left the morning after their night together, Charlotte had been more preoccupied by Ma’s impending hanging, but a small, niggling part of her had wondered as well after the lady’s fate. What would wait in store for her when she arrived back at the estate? Charlotte shuddered to think of it, taking the first opportunity handed to her, however convenient, to visit the lady in her quarters. It was the last time she’d been to the house before tonight. 

 

Isabella was likely in her room, tucked away in the western wing of the house. From what she could tell, the surrounding rooms were vacant, left unused for years at a time, particularly after Isabella’s father’s death. To access it easily, one must take a separate staircase, not the main one which wound around the foyer. The house was empty, nary a lady’s maid or servant walked the halls. She supposed their help was needed outside to cater to the guests. 

 

Charlotte climbed the dim ascent, arriving at a landing where only one lamp was lit outside Isabella’s door. Staring down the wide corridor, Charlotte felt herself drowned, dwarfed by the house’s darker impulses. So too was she afraid of Isabella, though she would never admit it. In that brief glance, meters and meters apart in a crowd, there had been a quickening in her - some combination of ice and fire in equal and uneasy measures. Charlotte felt, inexplicably, that she’d hedged some bet she couldn’t afford in coming here tonight. She thought back to her gambling, wild days - how she’d conceal losing cards while throwing down evermore of Sir Howard’s measly fortune: always in good humor. 

 

She kept her own cards, the ones that counted, close to her chest: her family, the trinkets that might seem like rubbish to anyone else. She played games of chance only on her own terms. Isabella’s gambit threw her off-balance, made the game seem dangerous. Where before she could neatly categorize the woman as both object of desire and pity, Charlotte’s understanding was now muddied. Rather than douse the errant flame of Charlotte’s fascination, Isabella’s betrayal had poured oil over it, drenching Charlotte’s every vacant moment with frustrating questions. Who was Isabella? Clearly, not the shrinking flower who shied away from Charlotte’s steady glances. Not the jealous, conflicted woman who stood in Golden Square’s parlor, rejecting her advances. And not the woman who’d stayed the night on Greek Street, uncurled from her fineries and wrapped instead around Charlotte. Where Isabella had been a puzzle, tricky but solvable, she was now more of a personal crisis. Like a broken mirror, she suggested less a distorted image of herself, but rather one of Charlotte. 

 

Never had anyone come into Charlotte’s life (or in the case of Isabella, the other way around) and upended so entirely her sense of self. Initially, she’d been merely intrigued by the lady. Charlotte obsessed over what Isabella’s costly secret might be in her off hours from faking niceties with Lydia. At the same time, however, she couldn’t help but want to set the woman free: from her brother, Lydia, even herself. That night, Charlotte who was raised on conceit in the bedroom, whose sexual history when it came to true desire was spotty at best, had been driven by what she called friendship. And yet, she’d never carried on with anyone, male or female, like Isabella. Then, for the woman to blindside and confound her, leave her weaponless, her shield tossed down….that was the most shocking of all. 

 

It made her head pound, but still Charlotte couldn’t bring herself to raise a fist to the door. Perhaps Isabella wanted some privacy from the crowd. Perhaps it had nothing to do with her at all, just the rotten memories of this house and its grounds. Maybe Charlotte’s narcissistic streak was to blame for storming up here, unannounced once again, to do... what exactly? Reprimand the lady? Exact some minor revenge? Or worse: cower before her...or kiss her, be tempted to reach out for her? Muddled in mind and spirit, Charlotte stood at the door’s threshold, unable to leave or stay with any certainty. From inside the room, no sound escaped. Nothing seemed to stir from within those four walls and yet Charlotte was positive Isabella was inside. 

 

At last, she knocked twice in quick raps, neither too loud nor too soft in her approach. There was a pause, seconds or so with no answer from inside, and Charlotte doubted herself in those long moments. Then, a quiet call: “Come in.” The voice was resigned, as though willfully inviting the reaper himself. Charlotte turned the golden doorknob and slowly swung open the grand door. Her direct sight offered a vacant stool in front of the boudoir. Isabella, it seemed, was not sat there. She was not, as well, on any of the low benches, made for pleasant reading. Charlotte’s eye drew across the room to the high bed and atop it, to her slight surprise, was Isabella. 

 

The lady faced away from Charlotte, perched just so on the far edge of the frame. Her arms hung loose at her sides, fists open and curling just slightly over her own thighs. Immediately, Charlotte noted the obvious removal of the wig. Even Isabella’s low ponytail had come undone, leaving waves of long, dark hair pouring over her shoulders. She looked out the window, or seemingly, beyond it where rooftops curved like fallen crescent moons across the distant city. Not a single lamp lit the room. Bathed in the half-white light of evening, Isabella’s room faced the side of the house where servants received ceaseless house deliveries, unlike Harcourt’s rooms which looked out greedily upon the gardens. His rooms received wide swaths of light, Charlotte knew, where Isabella’s only welcomed a sliver of that. 

 

She’d been in this room only once and never at night. Charlotte couldn’t help but to imagine a younger Isabella, sat just as she was now, near catatonic, hair loose and slipping slowly into the darkness surrounding her. That image, one belonging to a sad fantasia, overlapped for a moment with the vision before her, as though there sat two Isabellas leaning against the bed - the one she knew and a younger one just beside her. 

 

Charlotte was frozen, unable to conjure a word or gesture, and yet Isabella did not turn toward her. The curved shoulders, weighed by tragedy or sadness or sheer exhaustion, stayed put. No sigh passed the lady’s lips nor did she move a muscle elsewhere. If she’d not heard the hesitant invitation, Charlotte might doubt the permissibility of her standing there at all. 

 

“I knew it would be you.” Isabella spoke slowly and softly and did not stutter. 

 

“Why? Could’ve been your daughter or brother. They too know where your rooms are I’d gather?” Charlotte let some venom slip into her voice. 

 

Somehow, impossibly, Isabella stilled further. Charlotte was reminded of a statue she’d seen in a painting in the Repton’s manor of all places. In it, a cherubic child flew immobile over a stretch of oasis-like curls of paint, suggestive of Eden or Paradise… a garden for pleasure in the most literal form and, below the angel, a nude statue. She’d reached out then, delinquent in her slow caress of the painting’s surface, feeling each brushstroke that formed the monument of a woman, her arms cast up, the face turned from Charlotte’s questing eye. 

 

Charlotte, who’d been thirteen at the time and a pet favorite for Lord and Lady Repton’s shared vices, did not know what to make of another woman’s form. She’d seen nudity her whole life. Growing up as she did under the shadow of her mother’s trade - a naked girl was no less common place than the furniture where she conducted her business. She’d never considered the possibilities there within, not until paid to lay with the Reptons at the same time. That had been new, but routine: a cull was a cull was a cull - money and favor to be kept by any means necessary; another chore in the daily grind of harlotry. Even at a young age, Charlotte understood that.

 

But the statue in the painting had provoked another reaction entirely. It was, of course, an illusion: a piece of art trapped within another piece of art. Further and further from Charlotte’s reach as she drew away from the wall, it’s qualities begged of her a deep look, an examination of pleasure in the lines she might otherwise know too well. 

 

And though presently fraught with tension, furious and fascinated in equal measure: Charlotte could not deny the pleasure she took in looking at Isabella. The quiet silhouette of her hair, tumbling down over the uncherished neck (her jewels were gone as well), a strand or two falling over her eyes. As Charlotte rounded the bed, Isabella’s profile emerged like a revelation. She first noted the small wrinkles, the blueish circles that reflected the azure of Isabella’s eyes, then further: a hint of milk-white shoulder, a line of lace carrying down an arm to that wrist and hand whose impression had so disturbed Charlotte’s routine earlier. Those hands, rarely at rest, turned palm up in the gown’s skirts. Perhaps the tension was one-sided and Isabella cared not whether Charlotte stood beside her or not. The lady’s body had once responded to hers, she knew. In fact, no one had ever responded to Charlotte’s attentions in quite that way. Yet now there was nothing, a non-reaction worse than anger or anything else Charlotte might’ve predicted.

 

“I knew it was you because you knocked.” Isabella finally looked at her, her expression blank, eyes deepened by the dimness around her. 

 

Charlotte, taken aback, had no quip for a statement so simple. Isabella, whose words were always deceptive, commonly careful, spoke in the low, lovely register Charlotte remembered well. The teasing, higher voice was one she shared for her brother and fellow aristocrats and it was as false as it was useful. She’d never employed it around Charlotte and so each of their conversations, however guarded, seemed imbued in secrets, delivered only in dulcet notes and unfulfilled glances.

 

“I suppose his  _ lordship _ fancied an element of surprise then?” Charlotte took two careful steps forward. Isabella’s lip curled just the slightest, her whole body slowly emerging from its stillness, a medusa-curse undone. She rose from the bed and moved toward the window, palms skimming the gilded eave. 

 

“He is the most predictable person I know,” Isabella replied. Charlotte laughed, against her will, and inched ever closer to the lady, standing beside her at the sill. “S’pose that makes sense…” Charlotte sighed, looking down at the vacant sidelot below. The party’s din seemed a world away from here, only flaring in the distance. Charlotte continued: “Where’s Sophia then?” 

 

Isabella pursed her lips. “At our table, being courted to death by the young son of Lady Marston.” 

 

“Courted to death? Not sure I’ve ever experienced that…”

 

“That’s surprising, considering your...” Isabella broke off, falling silent once more.  _ Considering my what _ , Charlotte thought,  _ My beauty? My profession? _ She willed more words to fall from Isabella’s lips, but the pause only sustained. 

 

“I’m hardly in demand these days. I could walk circles around that party and likely end the night alone.” Isabella huffed: “I find that difficult to believe. You wouldn’t like to converse with someone, even under these circumstances?” 

 

Charlotte shook her head, frustrated once again. Isabella was right. If there were any night to break her nun’s respite and pull a cull, it would be tonight. And yet, she was stood in a lady’s disused, dark bedroom, trading half truths with a woman who refused to look at her. She was tempted to say something else entirely:  _ I’d like to speak with you. For real. About anything and everything without you walking away, sidestepping the truth I so desperately need from you to move on _ . 

 

Instead, she chose action over words, as she was wont to do. Reaching over slowly, Charlotte ran her fingers over the back of Isabella’s hand. The touch reverberated up her own arm, travelling to some center, both alert and unreliable, that erupted in an instant. Where exhaustion bled through her just minutes ago, she now felt awake as though coming off a very long nap. 

 

Isabella - whose talent for stillness knew no bounds - trembled. Charlotte felt it in the twitch of her fingers then noticed how it moved to her shoulders and lip. Afraid she might’ve offended, or worse, that her touch was unwanted, Charlotte made to move away from the lady. Before she could remove her hand though, Isabella dropped her chin and turned her palm up, grasping Charlotte’s wrist. Her touch was firm, bordering on desperate. She took several deep breaths, eyes closed, before turning to look at Charlotte. 

 

What she didn’t say was “don’t go,” though Charlotte could sense the plea behind the lady’s quivering. Little remained of her stoniness and Charlotte prepared herself for some sort of apology. 

 

“Why have you come,” Isabella whispered. Charlotte felt a pang of disappointment at the question. Her wrist, still in Isabella’s grasp, tugged away and the two women made space between themselves. “I haven’t come for you, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

 

“I apologize. I haven’t the right to ask you anything at all anymore.” Isabella moved toward the door, as though intending to leave Charlotte there alone in the dark. Charlotte chased, hackles risen as some of that extinguished fight returned to her.

 

“You’re right. You don’t. And yet I think I’m owed at least some answers from you.” Isabella paused, resigned, then gestured to two quilted chairs in a far corner of the room. They were nestled between several tall bookcases, their contents hidden in the murky nonlight. Charlotte took the invitation and sat, waiting for Isabella to join her. The lady wavered, as though tempted to let dormant manners kick in. Charlotte half-expected to be asked whether she’d prefer tea or wine. 

 

Charlotte angled her body towards the shelves while the lady gathered her skirts to sit. Feigning to read the obscured titles on the books’ spines, Charlotte composed herself before looking Isabella in the eye. Her courage, it seemed, was wasted. Isabella looked in her general direction, but her eyes were distant and glassy, as though she were somewhere else and not riveted to this spot by sheer feeling like Charlotte. They sat in silence for a moment before Charlotte began. 

 

“Where is your brother? I haven’t had the displeasure of spotting him yet tonight.” 

 

“I imagine he’s several drinks deep at a Parisian brothel at the moment. That’s just a suspicion, though.” Isabella smirked.

 

“He’s abroad? For how long?”

 

“I’m not positive. We don’t speak apart from written correspondence over finances and the estate.” 

 

“Oh. How’d you work that out? You know, beyond sacrificing my entire family.” Isabella cringed and drew further back into the chair. Her hands nervously curled around the cushioned arms, making indents in the fabric. 

 

“It was simple. Once he granted me the house in St. James, I had several stipulations put in writing. With me out from under the same roof, his games no longer interest him as they once did.” 

 

_ St. James _ , Charlotte thought,  _ so she’s been nearly under my nose this whole time!  _ Charlotte figured it was Isabella who fucked off to France, not her brother who was far more active in London social circles than she. Perhaps her ear for the minor quibbles of high society had gone deaf, but Charlotte felt certain that she would’ve heard about all this: Isabella’s daughter, their move to St. James, Harcourts unofficial expulsion, by now. 

 

“I didn’t know you’d stayed in the city.”

 

“It does not make for a thrilling story, which is why no gossip would’ve trickled down to you. The beau monde simply does not have an interest in my whereabouts anymore.” There was an edge of humor in Isabella’s voice and, oddly, relief. For someone who threw Charlotte to the wolves for her family’s reputation, why sound so pleased by that very reputation’s decimation? 

 

Charlotte hesitated. “And Sophia? How’s she adjusted?” Isabella, for the first time that night, smiled - though thinly. “She’s taken to the change quite well. A carriage takes her to and from school, but she spends her off hours pacing the gardens, memorizing verse. She has many questions, but also much patience. I don’t think she expects all the answers of the world from me just now, content to wait and savor our newly united life. She’s even allowed me to teach her to play the piano.” 

 

As Isabella waxed poetic about Sophia, her sincerity and affection exposed itself in every word. Charlotte let the lilting tones of the lady’s voice calm her. They washed over her like a river tide, temporarily emptying her mind of its preoccupations. Though unwilling to admit it, Charlotte had missed listening to Isabella speak. She did not talk in the manner of most Charlotte knew, rich or otherwise. George Howard, despite his wealth, had been an imbecile who spoke to excess of absolutely piss all nothing. Lydia was prone to speeches, but they felt rehearsed and only serviceable as poisonous charms. Ma and Nance were of cutting wit, but few words. But Isabella, who’d lived under her brother’s pricking thumb for so long, denied as Charlotte knew of her truthful expression, spoke well. 

 

Reared as she was in the art of manipulating the men who threatened her (not unlike Charlotte), she could string together a sentence that, when pulled apart, had meanings multifaceted and resonant. There was also a poetics to her register, how the syllables rose and fell, suggesting music. Isabella, apparently,  _ was _ musically trained - something Charlotte had not previously known. She could imagine the lady upright on a piano’s bench, long fingers arced over the keys, moving fast and then slow with the piece. 

 

Charlotte tuned back into Isabella’s words, though the image lingered. The lady spoke of Sophia’s schooling and her innumerable talents. Ma though loyal and loving to a fault, hardly ever spoke like that about Charlotte and Lucy, despite both girls dutifully following in her footsteps, reaching heights of success in harlotry that Ma never reached herself. Charlotte admired Isabella’s verbose affections: how she wound a string of praises around Sophia even when the girl wasn’t present to hear them. Isabella grew quiet at last and Charlotte knew that despite her wandering mind, she’d be expected to say something in return.

 

“Jacob, my brother who you’ve met, is a quick study as well - though we can’t afford too many books for the house.” Isabella’s eyes sharpened, surprisingly alert in an instant. 

 

“Our library in St. James’ is flush. Between Sophia and I, we’ve only read maybe half the books therein. If Jacob would ever like to visit and borrow one of them, he’d be free to.” Isabella smiled to herself, seemingly pleased at the prospect.

 

Charlotte laughed. “I’m not sure how the finery in your neighborhood will receive my baby brother, in spite of his charms. I will ask him about it though, I promise.”

 

“He’d perhaps need a chaperone… if your sister or... yourself would accompany him then I see no reason why he couldn’t visit as often as he likes.” Isabella demurred. 

 

_ There it is _ , Charlotte thought _ , the lady still demands my presence _ . Charlotte’s first instinct was to rebuff her, say something nasty about St James’ or even the house she’d never visited. But something held her tongue: likely, her curiosity. She wondered what a home, as envisioned by Isabella instead of her brother or father, might look like. Would the rooms be warm, plushly furnished, or high ceilinged and cavernous like the ones in this estate? Modest or extravagant? Another thing Charlotte knew, though she resented it: she would like to visit the lady again. Invited, for once, instead of couriering Lydia’s whims or making her own demands. 

 

“Perhaps--” Charlotte replied.

 

A burst of sound in the hall interrupted their reverie. Charlotte motioned for Isabella to stay put, moving to open the door and peek outside. Down the other end of the hall, two drunken revellers were kissing grotesquely. 

 

The man’s wig was an ochre blonde. He pushed a petite woman further into the wall, running his hand quick up her skirts. Charlotte noticed the woman’s feet sliding beneath his weight, her heeled slippers unable to support her on the smooth floor. The kissing, Charlotte also noted, was more a one-sided push, the man obvious drunk in his sloppy movements. She looked back for a moment to Isabella now standing. Charlotte gestured for her to stay put, but the lady did not oblige, instead using her superior height to press around Charlotte in the doorway and out into the hall. 

 

Charlotte didn’t know what she expected, but it was not what Isabella did next. Back straight, she walked casually down the corridor as though making a trip to the washroom, not to confront trespassers. 

 

“Can I help you? Surely, you don’t think I’ll let you one of my rooms for this?” Her voice was sharp and something in her posture kept Charlotte from following after her. 

 

The man turned, allowing the woman to slide onto her arse on the floor, unsupported. “M’lady, you’re not exactly the lord and master here are you?” He stepped back, his arms raised up in jest. 

 

It was Liddington. Charlotte boiled, though rooted to the spot. Fury flowed through her body, blinding her with tears of anger. Fallon had fallen like the pitiful monster he was, yet Liddington lived to roam these halls like a king, likely terrorizing another woman for the sheer thrill of it. 

 

“I think, you’ll find, that I am.” Isabella’s voice had risen again to that register and her height put her an inch or two over Liddington. “But what I think you’ll find most interesting are the papers I seized from my dear brother’s desk. He kept such verbose notes on all his friends. Lucky for you that he showed his affections so privately.” 

 

Liddington straightened at that, seemingly forgetting his female companion who’d collected herself. She took off down the hallway in Charlotte’s direction, ignorant of her presence. Her face, ruddy and trailing tears, appeared under the lamplight for only a moment before she whisked down the stairs and out of site. 

 

“Are you making threats, Isabella? What theater! Harcourt wouldn’t like to hear about your mad quibbles now would he?” 

 

“Harcourt, I believe, doesn’t want to hear about me at all anymore. Perhaps if you stopped to think why that is, you wouldn’t have entered my home unannounced and uninvited.” Beneath Isabella’s words there was an air of mystery, some clout that she wielded like a knife. 

 

Liddington took a few steps back, looked the lady up and down once, then walked around her. Back down the hall, he paused outside the doorway where Charlotte was still peeking. She pulled herself more fully behind the door, but she saw on his face a flicker of recognition and then, to her discomfort, a smirk. A minute later, he too was gone. 

 

Isabella still stood in the dim hall, her shoulders sagging. When she did not move after a moment or two, Charlotte thought she might’ve forgotten she was there. She tip-toed out of the room, silent in her approach. Not wanting to spook the lady, she called out: “Isabella, are you alright?” Isabella did not answer.

 

Charlotte inched closer, then braved a touch of Isabella’s bare shoulder. She felt the answering shudder as Isabella’s frost melted. Turning around, Charlotte was struck by the look in her eyes. They were near black in the darkness, glazed in anger or sadness Charlotte wasn’t sure. Arresting and unblinking, Charlotte felt suddenly naked under that gaze - in more ways than one.

 

If she swayed forward, would the lady let her fall to the floor as Liddington did to that girl? Or would she fall into Isabella like one diving into a deep lake? She could not deny the unspoken temptation. Her hand slid as the lady turned to Isabella’s neck and rested there, twitching to move up or even down, everywhere.  There was a flint to Isabella’s stare and her very features were shadowed, the blues under her eyes deeper and more beguiling than ever. 

 

They’d never been in a position like this. Always, their touches and teases had occurred under Charlotte’s guiding hand or mouth. The lady, always hesitant, careful in her every step, stood before her, over her really, stormy in her stillness. She raised a hand to Charlotte’s cheek, running her thumb over the bone there. Now it was Charlotte whose body stuttered, a shake that traveled from her lips down to her knees. 

 

This was no gift or game and its razor edge skimmed its threat down Charlotte’s spine. She was the perpetual puppeteer, pulling the strings on other’s libidos - and yet now she found her own snipped, desire flowing down and down towards… 

 

“You must believe me when I say that there are things that you can’t understand. And you shouldn’t seek answers to questions that will only wound you.” Isabella’s stared on, unblinking. 

 

Charlotte, winded, uttered back: “I can’t help myself for wanting to know.”  _ To know you _ … Charlotte didn’t add, though the implication rested between them. Isabella said nothing. Instead her thumb made another pass over Charlotte’s cheek before sweeping down to her lower lip. And like the Gates of Troy accepting the gift that will destroy, Charlotte parted them, wetting the skin with her kiss. 

 

Isabella, returning to herself, pulled back, cheeks flushed. “I must return to my daughter, you understand?” Speechless, Charlotte nodded. Distracted by the sharp taste of Isabella in her mouth, she let the lady pass unquestioned - back into her room where the door snicked shut behind her. 

 

Some minutes later, Charlotte descended the stairs and informed a footsman of her departure. The girls, at this hour, would be returning to the house with plentiful culls. She had work to do and work could recenter her, banish this night from her mind until sleep came to haunt her once more. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! Yes, we're at 10k with them just barely reunited. Yes, this will probably be longer than I initially planned....


	4. Come Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between waking and sleeping, Isabella and Charlotte are dogged by memories.

Isabella returned to her motherly duties for just another hour, making idle chat in service of Sophia before calling a carriage for them both. Sophia suggested they stay the night. It was, after all, Isabella’s home - but the rooms were too unbearable. They offered no comfort and now held new memories: the confounding conversation (if you could call it that) with Charlotte and the confrontation with Liddington.

 

More than that, Isabella had been a breath away from pressing Charlotte into the corridor wall, from stepping one leg and then the other between Charlotte’s and tipping them into something she’d inevitably regret. Like Charlotte had said: she didn’t have the right to make any demands of her, not anymore, and certainly not one of this kind. 

 

Yet the encounter lingered with the lady on the ride back to St. James and - beyond that - under the covers of her bed. Sophia obviously wanted to stay up the night, gossiping and discussing every moment of the Gardens, but perhaps she sensed her mother’s tension or mistook it for the earlier exhaustion, because they parted with a quick squeeze in the foyer. 

 

Isabella hired a small staff, only a few borrowed from the main estate, to attend to Sophia and herself. They consisted of four ladies’ maids (two for her and two for Sophia), a footsman, a butler, and a cook; as well as three young women for the cleaning and kitchen duties. Isabella grew up with her father’s vast staff - upwards of fifty servants worked in the Blayne estate in its heyday. Harcourt had reduced the number, if only because he preferred an increased bastardization of privacy with his sister. Only two ladies maids carried over: Sally, a young girl originally from Ireland and Marin, quite a bit older than Sally who’d been with Isabella since before her damnation. In fact, Isabella was of the belief that it was Marin who’d overheard the act, though she’d long since let that grudge fall away. Marin had been attentive throughout Isabella’s pregnancy and was the only staff member to express private disgust with her brother, though he was her lord and master. 

 

Before climbing the modest staircase, Isabella instructed Andrew to extinguish the lights and put the staff to bed aside from Marin who would come to undress Isabella and Sophia in their separate quarters. Isabella lit her own lamps in the master bedroom before seating herself at the low boudoir. She slowly removed the remaining jewelry and the replaced wig. It had been a moment of physical weakness, the aura of the estate so cloying that Isabella had shorn herself, a female Samson, prostrate to her own pain in the lonely house. 

 

Charlotte, to her surprise, had come running after her. Though Isabella knew of her penchant for confrontation, she did not expect it. To be exposed like that - immobilized by her worst instincts in her dark, childhood bedroom - was mortifying. Yet, Isabella knew that a part of her had wished for the encounter, prayed for it even. How many times had she sat in despair there and never been caught? No one ever cared to notice her beyond her fineries, especially these days. Charlotte was the only one to answer her silent call. 

 

Before returning to the party, she’d pinned the wig back on, giving herself some protection after letting her guard down so thoroughly. Her mask of powders, rouge, and perfumes came off in methodical wipes. She ran her fingers through the now sweat-flattened hair, pulling tight when she reached the strands’ ends. The pricks of pain broke her mental fogginess just as Marin let herself quietly into the room. 

 

“My lady, shall I run a bath?” 

 

“It is late. I shall have one tomorrow.” 

 

Marin nodded and moved forward, giving Isabella both her hands to lift her off the stool. Stood in front of her armoire’s mirror, she let Marin begin undoing her gown, moving slowly so as not to pull the fabric. She placed it aside and started on the panniers and stays, unlacing with small tugs that soothed Isabella with their swaying rhythm. Isabella averted her eyes from the mirror, staring down at her own hands folded in front of her. Her thumb still stung with the impression of Charlotte’s mouth. She brought it to her own lip for a moment before letting the hand fall once more. Marin finished the undressing, pulling a night shift over Isabella’s head and a brush from the boudoir drawer. Once again seated, Isabella closed her eyes as Marin ran the brush through about a hundred times, then set it aside at last. 

 

“I’ll retire now Marin. Go to Sophia and indulge her enthusiasm if you don’t mind? She’s had an eventful night.” Isabella smiled.

 

“And you as well, my lady?” Marin gazed at her curiously. 

 

Isabella recalled Charlotte’s face in the indigo night. 

 

“Yes, I have.” 

 

Isabella grasped Marin’s shoulder before turning to her bed, the sheets already pulled halfway down. When the door was shut and the lamps extinguished, Isabella closed her eyes for a minute or two - seeking the black vacancy of slumber. Yet, the sensation in her hand sustained and an untoward ache ran from the base of her skull down between her legs. Dull, but distracting in its intrepid throbbing. 

 

Isabella never had this problem before. A woman of her propriety did not lay in bed  _ wanting _ into the space around her. After her pregnancy, it was as though an entire part of her body had closed its doors and windows: no sensation beyond phantom pain remained. But Charlotte had found a fissure, however small and invisible, in her framework and suddenly whole parts of herself started up their operations, whirring to life.

 

What was there for a woman of her stature to want after anyway? Once, her deepest desire had been an unattainable freedom from Harcourt’s control. That had seemed an impossible dream, a prospect she half-feared. Isabella wondered what she would be with her brother’s departure. After so many years under his thrall, Isabella knew nothing of her own devices. Her every waking moment had been a balancing act, a theater of getting what she wanted by the most desperate means necessary without giving Harcourt precisely what  _ he _ wanted most. Charm and bribes and pointed teasing that made her sick to her stomach: those were her rituals. 

 

In the last year, she’d gleaned some understanding. Without the churn of Harcourt’s social calendar - the gambling parties and mirthless conversation to be had - Isabella naturally turned toward contemplation as well as her quiet fancies. As a child, she’d been gifted with instruments and verse, though the gentility of her playing and poetry was out of step with the culture around her. In her free hours, now plentiful, she sat for hours at her piano bench, playing songs known by heart. Or simply in silence, a newly found gift. 

 

Idle hours were prone to idle desires - no longer the hand at her throat chopped off, the gasping fantasies of free breath and reign. The hours stretched before her demanded quieter visions: should she consider a move to the countryside or how best to invest her fortune? And always, the questions were ones best answered by Charlotte whose voice and wit Isabella could not accurately mimic in her mind. She knew it was irrational, but all her frustrations it seemed to her could be soothed by the woman, if only she might waltz into her home and speak her mind once more. 

 

That fantasy lay shattered at the foot of the bed. Her encounter with Charlotte accomplished little other than opening old wounds, leaving her at the mercy of her own temptation. Still unable to sleep, Isabella turned on her side, running one hand over the unused pillow to her right. Last year, as the worst of winter gripped her and Sophia in the house, snow piled high in the garden, she’d given herself over to infantile daydreams in which Charlotte occupied the bed’s other half, perhaps asleep or propped up with a book. In her newfound freedom, Isabella worried that she’d somehow regressed. A woman of her age did not idle over lovesick notions of time spent - she should be working, concerning herself with the security of her wealth and future of her child. 

 

Sophia, after all, was a bastard and though Isabella considered her to be the finest jewel in London, she knew most did not agree. What Isabella had to combat prejudice was no longer reputation, but money. Yes, her inheritance was hefty, hardly dented by Harcourt’s childish expenditures, but how best to invest it? Her father, a man of his or any generation, never discussed money with Isabella. He’d shared some wisdom with Harcourt, who’d simply ignored all his advice, choosing to throw his money into harlotry and gambling. An eternal fop, Harcourt never cared for hunting or parliamentary discourse, the typical public affairs of men of his station. 

 

Fed up with her sleeplessness, Isabella arose, throwing a thick cloak around her shoulders. Stepping into her slippers, she quietly let herself out the door and down the stairs to the library where she might find a suitable book to pass the hours. Here, the air was even chillier and the shelves seemed to stand sentry to her wandering thoughts. To the right was history and geography, a well-organized array of information about Europe and its colonies. Beyond that, in a corner fashioned into a cozy reading nook, were the verse books. These were most neglected in the estate and Isabella knew that Harcourt cared not for poetry at all. He would keep many of the priceless volumes, the important histories of politics and Christendom, for appearances, but would likely not notice the disappearance of poetry from his home. 

 

Looking over the spines, Isabella slowly drew her fingertips across their cool textures before selecting Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. Medieval romance was not of this cursed century, Isabella knew, but she couldn’t help but be drawn to its chivalric fantasies. Men who went on quests for the mere affection of ladies: this was what Isabella imagined romance to be as a well-read child. Yet, she couldn’t help drawing comparisons to her and Charlotte. Had the other woman not gone on a heroic journey, driven by passion and morality, to right the wrongs of monsters? London was not Camelot and Charlotte was no knight, but the story brought Isabella some comfort with its weaving, bobbing rhymes. 

 

Pulling her cloak tighter around her, she got maybe fifty pages in before her head began to dip. It was late - not late enough for the new day’s sun to peek over the window sill, but late all the same. Resolving to make it back to her room before the staff began their breakfast preparations, Isabella took a last deep gaze out at the London horizon. Somewhere, below those storied roofs, Charlotte hopefully laid at peace in her bed. And that, Isabella thought, mattered more than her own rest. 

 

* * * * * * *

 

Charlotte was not, in fact, asleep. She’d return to a roiling ruckus in her house, an entirely welcome distraction. In each room, her girls were working well into the night. There was something about the Pleasure Gardens that made each man a self-exalted titan and the sounds of business ebbed and flowed the night long. Charlotte tallied in her head any extra expenses: a full night for each of her girls could find the house flush for the next month or more.

 

Sat in the parlor, exhausted and subdued, Charlotte waited for Pa and Nance to reappear. Both had gone off to discuss some mysterious plot, almost certain to do with Ma, but not before each casting worried glances at Charlotte. Miffed not to be not included in their schemes, Charlotte sat alone with her thoughts over a thumb of scotch. It burned down her throat, settling easily in her stomach like a dying fire. A draft blew through the unsealed windows and, between sips, Charlotte shivered.

Try as she might, Charlotte could not help but to dwell on the night’s events. Alone in her home, feeling further away from herself and her girls than ever, she felt fractured in two. A part of her remained in that cavernous house, imagining Isabella’s cold slumber, kept company only by her memories. 

 

Charlotte had never spent a night there. On Harcourt’s orders, she left in the evening, her abuse paid and done. After the wretched card party, Isabella had tried to make Charlotte stay. Distracted as she was that night by pain and plots, desperate for respite from her own machinations, Charlotte hadn’t thought much of Isabella’s appearance outside Harcourt’s rooms. Now, as she slumped against the chair’s back, she imagined Isabella’s pacing, fretting, hovering outside the tall doors, wanting to check on her. At the time, Charlotte had been unaware of Harcourt’s true desires for his sister. Had she known, would she have reacted differently? Perhaps she would’ve paused, reached out for the lady, and let them commiserate. How harshly she’d pulled her arm away then. Determined to go home and drink her aches away, she hadn’t considered the look on Isabella’s face. Crestfallen and hesitant. At the time, Charlotte could not imagine the lady in her home, the two worlds simply could not mix - it would throw everything off balance. And yet, her own bed now knew the impression of Isabella’s body. Charlotte had stayed up an hour or more watching the lady sleep that night. Alert in her disbelief, she’d marveled at the nude woman lying beside her. 

 

She’d nearly tempted Isabella into a bed in Golden Square, had laid with her brother, however hesitantly, in his bed, but Charlotte had never spent a night with Isabella at the Blayne estate. She found herself disturbed by the gaps in her imagination: again and again she saw only Isabella padding awkwardly around the house. Isabella, alone, was an unknown quantity: a prospect to vex Charlotte into submission. 

 

Round and round her thoughts went as the noises upstairs finally quieted. One by one, the girls walked their culls down the stairs, trading barbs and jokes despite their exhaustion. Each man dutifully paid his fee, then each girl dropped Charlotte’s charge into her palm. Lucy was the last to exit and - to Charlotte’s shock - had both the Duke and Duchess with her at the foot of the staircase. Neither man nor wife said a word to Charlotte, simply walked out the door under cover of cloaks and right into their waiting carriage. As the door closed, Lucy looked back at Charlotte, smirking. 

 

With money in hand, she edged around her sister and into the kitchen. Charlotte followed and found Lucy stood at the stove, placing a pot of tea on the fire. 

 

“So, you’re entertaining ladies now, are you?” Something about the prospect irked Charlotte and she wasn’t sure exactly why. Lucy laughed.

 

“We entertain  _ everybody _ don’t we? Any customer who pays that is.” 

 

“Have you ever done that before?” Charlotte inquired.

 

“Why d’you want to know Charlotte? Weren’t you the one  _ entertaining _ a lady for weeks on end for free?” Lucy sat down tiredly at the table, arms folded in front of her at the elbows. 

 

Charlotte bristled. “I’d hardly call last year’s events entertaining… would you?” Lucy looked up apologetically. “You’re right. I’m just in a mood - it’s been a long night and another one approaches tomorrow.” 

 

“You know, I’m not Ma. If you’d prefer a night off, you can just take one.” 

 

“We’ve gotta eat though. And I’ve had my eye on a few new gowns…” 

 

Charlotte laughed. “There’s the Sprat I remember. I was starting to think you’d gotten too grown up for your own good!” She sat herself in the seat next to Lucy, wrapping one arm around the younger girl’s shoulder. “Don’t push yourself, Luce. This life’ll take everything from you if you let it.” 

 

Lucy nodded and then rose to prepare them both tea. Warmed by the conversation and drink, Charlotte found herself in better spirits when Pa and Nance reemerged. The two nodded at each other before Pa headed up to check on Jacob. Nancy poured herself a whisky, passing over the tea kettle, and practically fell into a chair at the head of the table. 

 

“A long night whipping, Nance?” Lucy gestured to Nancy’s tall drink. 

 

“Something like that, little one. Shouldn’t the both of you be off to bed by now?”

 

“She’s right, Sprat. Off you go.” Charlotte nodded at Lucy who swallowed the last dregs of her tea, annoyance clear on her face as she obeyed her sister’s orders. 

 

After she left, Nancy’s expression grew more somber: “How did the rich pigs and their circus go?” 

 

“If you’re asking after the money, then we’re in the green for the foreseeable future.” 

 

“If I were asking after coinage, I’d be rummaging in your pockets myself.” Nancy’s incisive eyes cut into Charlotte. “Considering the Gardens’ precious host, I thought you’d be riled once again.” 

 

Nancy, who’d perhaps been the only one to sense Charlotte’s personal stake in Isabella’s betrayal, had allowed her to rant and rage at will in the weeks after last year’s events. Even after her anger had simmered down then transformed into a kind of melancholy, Charlotte often caught Nancy watching her, as though she expected Charlotte to crumble at any moment. 

 

“If it’s Lady Fitz you’re thinking of, I wouldn’t worry. We barely spoke to one another,” Charlotte said.

 

It was true, the two had exchanged relatively few words. Yet, the encounter disturbed Charlotte well into the night, breaking her buzzed reverie repeatedly with its exasperating blanks. More than she’d like to admit, it was the sharp taste of Isabella’s skin in her mouth that most lingered. Even with tea and drink in her belly, that unnameable sting remained and with it the look in Isabella’s eyes as they stood silently in the dark corridor. 

 

Returning to the house, culls had brought a small party back the Wells parlor. Maybe they wanted a little local color, something to offset the well-to-do atmosphere of the Blayne estate. Emily Lacey’s girls arrived for the so-called after party, happy to dote on the leftover culls to be had. 

 

A few had turned their attentions toward Charlotte. One, a young man likely involved in politics, had been handsome - Charlotte had to admit. Maybe a year or two older than she with russet brown hair and deep, polite eyes. Having not found something to his taste among the roiling party, he’d wandered over to Charlotte under the guise of directions to the washroom. He complimented her gown and struck up conversation about anything and everything - his bladder clearly not of pressing concern. 

 

He’d asked after her lonely posture, noticed observantly how she watched over the other girls and their culls, distancing herself just enough from conversation. Charlotte so rarely felt seen by culls beyond her surface charms and found herself surprisingly touched by his care. The underlying question was  _ what would it take to change your mind... to spend a night with you? _ and Charlotte knew better than to fall prey to this line of questioning. Though the man’s eyes were kind, his body certainly not bad at all, Charlotte couldn’t help but to compare his hair’s color to Isabella’s. It was a similar dark brown and he wore it pulled back, no wig. 

 

In Isabella’s bedroom, she’d been more than tempted to reach out for the lady’s bare tresses, which shone glossy in the moonlight. She’d taken her hand instead, but the yearning persisted, girded by memories of that long hair wrapped around her fingers. After they were done that night, Charlotte had brushed and brushed it until it resembled a thick, silken ribbon flowing down Isabella’s neck.  It was less curly than Charlotte’s, more wavy than straight, and thick as to suggest vibrant health and pampering. 

 

Charlotte indulged herself a slight tease, reaching up to creep her fingers along the young man’s lapel before twirling them around the ends of his ponytail. He blushed a bit. Charlotte was gratified, but his hair was not nearly as smooth as Isabella’s and the dissonance broke her attention. She found an excuse to leave him in the parlor and later found him nowhere to be seen, presumably upstairs with one of the girls. 

 

Her frustration was evident. After saying goodnight to Nance, she climbed the stairs to prepare for bed. As she disrobed, she couldn’t help but yank slightly at the pins in her wig, the ties of her stays. Vexation drove her through her nightly routine and when she finally found herself faceup atop her quilt, she’d driven the notion of slumber away. 

 

A day like this, she should’ve been asleep before hitting the pillow. Instead, her thoughts raced so quickly she was hardly able to parse one from the next. In a torrent of feelings and visions, the only clear thing was Isabella, illuminated as she was by Charlotte’s fixation. Still, she resented the lady, but - as she brought her thumb to her own lip - clearly still desired her. A year ago, she’d called it friendship, a gift. All that remained between them was betrayal - so now what was she to call this? 

 

It was a familiar situation to Charlotte, but only in mirror form. For years, she’d provoked a similar desperation in her culls - hoping to rile them into quick and dirty jobs. The faster they might froth over, the faster she’d be back home with her payment. It would be a lie to say that Charlotte rarely enjoyed sex: she enjoyed it just fine. If she had an itch to scratch, she didn’t generally hesitate to scratch it - and though much of the sex she had was transactional (Daniel and Isabella notwithstanding), she got off when she needed to just fine. 

 

So frequent were her culls that Charlotte rarely went to bed in this state. Agitated was the right word. The dull ache she’d felt in that dark hall crept back, transformed into a persistent throbbing between her legs. Again, she was arrested by the image of Isabella’s hair, how it contrasted with the milk-white of her skin. Before Charlotte could stop herself, the recalled memory of Isabella in the nude arose like a phantom. 

 

It had been in this room, in this very bed under candlelight, she’d pulled the pins from Isabella’s hair and revealed her body layer by layer. The woman in her mind’s eye was no statue - she shivered, trembled and later: thrusted, writhed. Every curved line demanded Charlotte’s close attention. Even once they were through, she’d be unable to let Isabella go: so taken by her reactions and her body that she’d slept in the crux of her arms the whole night through. 

 

The lady had been nervous at first, hesitant to touch Charlotte beyond her neck and cheeks. Yet, as the the candles melted, so too did Isabella. She grew ardent in her touches. Running hands down Charlotte’s sides, squeezing her waist, braving over her arse and then back up to her breasts. So rarely had she been handled so gently - Charlotte shuddered to think of how weak she’d been in the lady’s arms. Initially, she’d been mortified by her reaction, unwilling to recognize it for what it really was - but by night’s end she was willingly prostrate under Isabella - at her will and behest and nearly out of her mind with the pleasure of it. 

 

For months she’d attempted to keep Isabella neatly squared away in her memory: to box the lady away was to move on or so she’d told herself. But Charlotte was certainly as weak now as she was that night, if not weaker in her lonesomeness. Her hands anxiously moved to the sheets, reaching out to grip at someone who was not there. 

 

All alone, in her small bed, she closed her eyes and fully indulged the scene she’d been pushing away for a year. Two bodies in this bed instead of one. A colder night than this with wind battering the windows. Charlotte had taken her time, for once, and moved her mouth slowly from Isabella’s neck to cherish her chest and then lower to the dark V between her thighs.  _ An uncharted colony  _ she’d thought  _ like lands visited in only books’ journeys _ . The taste of Isabella had enchanted and then lingered with Charlotte for days, despite the bitter bite of coming despair and betrayal. Even now, she could recall its qualities - though only in theory. Her mouth watered to think of meeting it again. 

 

The memory of that night melded with tonight’s, side by side in her fantasy. Isabella’s soft-eyed expression of pleasure, how she writhed under Charlotte’s practiced hand overlapped by the earlier revelation of her stony gaze, blue in the midnight hallway - that thumb dipping to meet Charlotte’s tongue. 

 

Beyond vexation there was only the ache now, overwhelming in its intensity. Charlotte’s resistance crumbled. In the face of her total defeat, she let one hand slide up her own thigh, slowly as though it were Isabella’s and not her own. No one else touched her like Isabella: not even herself. She let first one, then two fingers slip down, rubbing and pressing. As she retraced Isabella’s steps in her head, her hips lifted to match each thrust. The house around her was at last silent, rendering her smalls gasps deafening. With a last shove toward bliss, Charlotte ran her unoccupied hand up her torso and into her own hair. A crystalline image of Isabella’s hand between her legs came unbidden. Charlotte shoulders arched off the bed and she only held off a cry by biting her tongue hard. 

 

Afterward, the quiet disturbed her. It simply amplified her failure: failure to forget Isabella, to keep out of her thoughts and prayers, and her failure to return to the only way of life she could trust - harlotry, not penniless desire. As the first blue shimmer of sun crept up the window, she fell into a fitful sleep, properly exhausted at last.

 

* * * * * * * 

 

Isabella awoke after a brief slumber to Sophia knocking at the door. When they’d first moved in together, the girl had been hesitant to ask anything of her mother - too afraid to sever their then vulnerable bonds of trust. A year later, she was more emboldened, her true nature delighting Isabella to no ends, though it made her uncouth in her manners at times. Before Isabella could invite her in, Sophia was already seated at the foot of her mother’s bed, hands folded. 

 

“Good morning, Mother. Did you sleep well?”

Isabella fibbed: “Yes, deeply. What about you?” 

 

“I had trouble falling asleep. I found myself still taken with last night’s festivities!”

 

Isabella nodded, a little guilty at her disappearance from what was apparently a very big night for Sophia. She allowed the girl to regale her with every detail, noting her attention to Lady Marston’s son and filing it away for further inspection. 

 

“Lord Cumberland arrived after you retired - I forgot to tell you. He asked after Uncle’s whereabouts,” Sophia trailed off. 

 

“And did you tell him?” 

 

“I simply said he was abroad for a few more months yet. I didn’t say where.”

 

“Good good. The last thing we want are for Harcourt’s old friends to deliver him back to us sooner rather than later.” Isabella frowned.

 

“Did he not agree to never come near here?” 

 

“So he did. But my brother, your uncle… he hardly ever keeps a promise...but enough of that for now! Shall we have breakfast?”

 

Sophia, satisfied enough with her mother’s veiled response, grinned. She took Isabella’s hand and dragged them down the stairs to where fruits and cakes waited for them. They took their suppers in the dining room, but breakfast and tea were served in the parlor around a small, circular table. Atop the table, the platters crowded each other for attention - rich jams, pastries, pineapple sliced in an oval around fresh cream - all the fixings of a fine feast for the eyes and mouth. Yet, Isabella found her appetite dulled.

 

A bright cold sun shone through the tall windows, streaming in liquid light across the thick silks and fineries of the room. Sophia sat in the far chair and closed her eyes for a moment, indulging in the sun’s warmth across her face and chest. Isabella looked at her fondly before pushing the pineapple toward her in offerance. 

 

“I’m so pleased mother, I’m famished.” Sophia plucked a slice up with her fork and held it aloft in front of her lips. “Will we attend more parties like the Gardens?” 

 

“Perhaps. Though, they are unique in the calendar. But there will be balls at which you might like to introduce yourself to more of my friends.” Isabella had no true friends. She continued, “There were far more when I was a young lady - multiple parties for Yuletide, each more tedious than the next I’m afraid, and long drawn-out affairs under the hot Summer sun. But I do so hope you find more pleasure in them than I did.”

 

“Were you courted? Ardently?” 

 

Isabella smiled, rueful. “Hardly. I much preferred my privacy and peace.” 

 

Sophia’s eyes then grew sharper, something disturbing her usual pleasant demeanor. “You did not entertain any handsome lords in your youth, Mother?” Isabella recognized the implication. Instantly. Sophia was not asking after her apparent lack of nostalgia, nor was she particularly interested in Isabella’s supposed glory in her beauty’s splendor. This question was about her father. Between the lines there was lingering hurt and confusion. Naturally, Sophia wanted to know where she came from, why Isabella had cast her off for so long. For a year, Isabella had not acknowledged those implicit questions and Sophia’s courage was not fortified enough to force her mother’s hand. But Sophia had grown stronger in recent months, more sure of herself, and thus more demanding of the full picture she should see in the mirror’s glass. Isabella, just last week, had barely warded off a swarm of her pointed questions.

 

“Mother…” Sophia started, breaking Isabella’s nervous reverie. 

 

“Sophia, let’s not start this now. I told you last week that your patronage I’ll keep a secret to my grave. You’re the better not to the know the beast of that burden. And you’ll find as you get older, you’ll think of your lineage - even me - less and less, until you bear your own children.”

 

Isabella frowned, though she knew it to be true. Her mother, who’d died in childbirth with Isabella squirming in her arms, was nothing more to her than a swirl of oil on high canvases around the estate. Her father certainly never spoke of her. And Harcourt used her only as a weapon against Isabella, reminding her constantly of her own original sin. While Isabella’s relationship to her father was fine, appropriate really, it was never warm nor intimate and so, after his death, it was the loss of his flimsy protection from Harcourt that Isabella felt the most. 

 

Her brother, who’d felt the keen sting of his father’s adamant rejection, spoke little of the man though his spectre lingered behind Harcourt’s cruelties - driving his son’s desire to erase their family history out of pure spite. After Isabella’s fall, he’d slowly stripped the estate of his father’s touches. Weak in her losses, grieving both distant father and child, Isabella hadn’t the strength to argue as teams of men furnished the house, repapering the walls and replacing the curtains - even taking down several portraits of Papa from the cavernous study. 

 

Harcourt spent hours in there a day, toiling away at his messy affairs, the door locked tight against servants and Isabella alike. His secrets, their stench kept behind a facade of wisdom and control, were notarized in ink by his very own hand. Despite his disorderly conduct, Harcourt kept daily records - not journals or diaries, never his own thoughts or desires - but itemized catalogues of his exploits. 

 

His machinations, Isabella realized, were to him an order of business. While driven by perverse passion for breaking girls, his post-coital logistics stunned Isabella with their systematic cruelty. Over the last twenty years, two decades of exploits, he maintained a running list of the price paid for maidenheads, a description of each of their countenances and qualities, as well as the dates on which he raped them.

 

A body of work so cruel, it’s existence stunned even Isabella. She’d found it hidden under the bottom panel of a locked drawer in Harcourt’s writing desk. Bound in iron-red dyed leather, it suggested itself a Satanic tome. Isabella had flipped through it back-to-front, starting with a description of poor Abigail - the ‘Q’ beside her name denoting Quigley’s involvement. As she flipped back in time, page after blood-soaked page, she noticed the Q joined by an M and then the M on its own. Who or what the M denoted - of that, Isabella was not positive. 

 

As she flipped to the first page, she stiffened - ready to see her own name blastoned across the white expanse. Isabella was terrified of written evidence of her damnation. The sheets had been whisked away, burned in her mind’s eye, and her child had come and gone and come back again, but the idea that Harcourt might have recorded her fall for posterity shook her. 

The first page instead contained another name: Catherine - 15 years old - dark hair and tall. The date was marked two weeks before her own violation. And again, the ‘M’ emblazoned beside it. Harcourt had been 22 - a young man in the throes of more appropriate debauchery: harlots and half-hearted attempts at courtship. He’d always been cruel in nature, though with none more so than Isabella. She’d seen him make comments on the looks of his generation of young ladies, how grotesque their features might be, their ankles (thought hidden by gowns) - he said - were surely wide and unsightly. His sneer prompted chuckles from his fellow lords - the bodies of the girls they tortured mere pawns in a game unworthy of it’s strict rules. 

 

Though relieved to not find her name marked down, Isabella was sickened by the record. She hid it back where she found it, but the mysterious ‘M’ prodded at her curiosity seemingly on the hour. She’d assumed that Quigley had always been behind her brother’s band of sinners. Charlotte had been the one to reveal his position of power within that secret society, but it seemed to her that Lydia as their procuress held the most pivotal role. Afterall, they’d be condemned to stealing common girls off the street were it not for her wicked charades. The ‘Q’ was obvious, but the ‘M’ a riddle. Isabella could not think of many Harcourt knew that would fall under the initial - and certainly none who would stoop to such a low profession as bawdry. (Isabella chastised herself at that - bawdry was not all created equal. Was she not infatuated at this moment with a bawd herself? Though, one as young and new aged in thinking as Charlotte was perhaps an exception, not the rule…) 

 

Sophia departed minutes ago, having left Isabella to her ruminations with perhaps a touch more coldness than usual. She preferred a quick kiss on the cheek for her mother, even when just leaving the bedroom or parlour for the gardens: a reassurance that she loved Isabella and that she was never far away. Isabella knew she warranted this chillier treatment. After all, a basic tennent of humanity was to known oneself and, therefore, what one deserves of others. Charlotte had so recently taught her this: the most precious gift of her life (aside from another of a kind decidedly less moral, but not unrelated). So long she’d considered herself a worthy target of her brother’s tortures. It was her fault after all that her body had so developed in a way as to sway him; her fault that she found herself unable to marry after the fact; her fault for her shyness, her ineptitude. 

 

Isabella strode out the parlor door and informed Andrew that she’d like to go for a ride. Knowing better than to ask further questions, he called for the footsman and Isabella entered the carriage alone - electing to leave Sophia for now to her own devices. Suddenly, she felt trapped in her quiet self-pity, disgusted at herself for wiling away at regrets and selfish hopes. What lay at the bottom of her brother’s drawer was both question and answer, blessing and curse - and Charlotte deserved to know at the very least of its existence. If not to re-implement her failed plot (one fallen on the back of Isabella’s betrayal), then for the peace of mind that she’d been right and - beyond that - she’d been vindicated. 

  
As the carriage rounded the corner of St James’ and headed into the wilder landscape of Covent Garden, Isabella kept her head down. Somehow, her conversations with the Charlotte never went as planned in her mind and yet she knew she must see her in the light of day, to provide some modicum of explanation, to be of use to someone who had changed her entire life, who had saved her though she herself might not see it that way. Isabella grasped her own knees and resolved herself to professionalism. She  _ would not _ recreate last night. And as the carriage pulled onto Greek Street, she knew it was a folly promise: she could be nothing other than soft in Charlotte’s sight and self-control, a fickle thing, would be the first thread undone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well. Seems like Isabella can't stay away... more soon x


	5. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A different kind of morning after.

Charlotte was irritable. She’d been in a state of unrest all day - agitated by her lack of sleep the night prior and the personal failures therein. She’d awoken to street noise below her window and the casual shuffling of feet around the house. Today would likely be a quiet one: the Gardens so exhausted both the girls and their culls that the next day was a kind of Sabbath - a respite from the tedious debauchery of their usual schedule.

 

“It’s not exactly Christmas is it?” Lucy said that morning, biting full-jawed into a ripe apple, a speck of juice running down the corner of her mouth.  _ This  _ Charlotte thought  _ is the new jewel of London _ . And she chuckled: they were more alike than they thought. Charlotte rose from the table to grab a hunk of bread just as Nancy and Sukey staggered in, bleary eyed but in good spirits. 

 

“I imagine some are feeling quite blessed this morn’ Luce,” Charlotte replied, sitting down to her jam and bread. 

 

“And  _ I  _ imagine we can count ourselves in that bunch, can’t we girls?” Nancy indicated at Charlotte. “We’ve made quite a killing in coinage Will tells me. Good on ya, we might be able to afford some decent food yet.” 

 

“Or maybe a new hat for you Nance - yours is starting to rip at the tip,” Lucy joked, pulling Nancy’s hat off her head and onto her own. As girls, they’d often played in Nancy’s clothes - fascinated by her leather boots and free flowing hair. Ma had treated them like china dolls, dressed them in the best dresses she could find despite the ever present creep of poverty. 

 

“You know I’d never spend on myself. I enjoy the finer things in life, all of which are paid for in welts and bruises.” Nancy brandished her cane, striking out at the air as though it were one of her masochistic culls. Charlotte leaned back, observing the rapport of the room: the quiet comfort each member of her family - from her blood to her girls - took in each other. After so much tension, so much strife and loss - finally, a semblance of peace had fallen, however fragile, over the house. It was as alive as ever with sound. Everyday one could walk the halls and hear work and conversation a plenty and rarely did one feel alone. 

 

Isabella, for the second time that morning, entered Charlotte’s thoughts. For her, who’d known nothing but the loneliness that emblemized her life with Harcourt, this house had been a shock. That much was clear to Charlotte, who’d observed the lady’s habits those days more closely than Isabella likely noticed. She struggled to keep up with the group jokes at the table, whether from difference of register or simply from being unused to inclusion in any real kinship - Charlotte did not know. 

 

Charlotte had been cold with her then. Driven by grief and her increasingly fruitless schemes, she’d kept some distance from the lady. Something about her crestfallen face made her angry and sad at the same time: wanting to reach out and console or scream. Isabella’s few attempts at tenderness following Ma’s “hanging” had struck to the heart of her like a knife. What comfort they provided was thwarted by Charlotte’s own dogged stoicism. Why hadn’t she simply accepted Isabella’s few kind words, the brush of her soft hand? A kind of fear had done it - turned Charlotte into the coldest version of herself, the one she used as a weapon against threats. What threat Isabella posed, Charlotte couldn’t bear to reconsider. 

 

Fanny and little Kitty soon joined the others, Kitty sleeping peacefully against her mother’s chest. Fanny had taken fewer and fewer culls of late, instead tending to her babe and accompanying the Scanwells on their charity work around the city. Charlotte knew that Ma would find her staying in the house without paying her way unacceptable, despite her affection for the girl - but Charlotte had no heart to reject a mother and child. Anyway, Fanny’s humor and Kitty’s radiance filled the house with a particular brand of light and she could not bring herself to regret letting them stay. 

 

The girls, done with breakfast, made their way into the parlor to slouch around the low couches, throwing their limbs up in leftover exhaustion from the previous day. Ms. Scanwell and Amelia who often could be found reading their holy books here were at church this morn with Violet (though Charlotte suspected that Violet’s recent attraction to “regular atonement before the eyes of God” had much more to do with teasing Amelia in front of her mother). Chatter was regular but dulled, not their usual riotous banter. Charlotte laid back against the couch beside the window, letting her unpinned hair hang over the side. Above her she could see condensation on the windows and knew it must be raining outside. It was appropriate to her mood, she thought, as a sunny day would’ve felt like a cruel twist of irony. Gloomy as can be, she closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind of its bombardments. 

 

At the skirt of her chemise, she felt a small tug. She looked down to see Kitty’s small fist wrapped around the white cotton. She’d recently began her crawling, making her way from one side of the parlor to the other while the girls watched and cooed at her. A dusting of red, fine hair she had and wide eyes that matched her mother’s in hue. 

 

Kitty was not yet talking, though she babbled in a way to suggest she understood the voices around her. Her wants were simple - milk, comfort, and sleep - and Charlotte wondered whether she herself had ever been so unburdened. She imagined not: Ma had given birth and raised her those first two years in Golden Square under the watchful eye of Lydia and the decrepit Mrs. May. Unlike Fanny, she’d kept to her work nonstop in those months, having no choice but to do so or be turned out on the street. Charlotte felt a dull emptiness to think of how she’d likely not been held as much as Kitty who was passed around as liberally as a bottle of drink, one second in Fanny’s arms, the next in Lucy’s or even Nancy’s. 

 

Again, a tug. Charlotte, who’d never been great with kids other than Lucy and Jacob, feigned ignorance for a moment longer before reaching down to scoop the girl up in her grasp. Kitty giggled, rubbing her smooth cheek into Charlotte’s neck before squirming rightside up. Charlotte cradled her head in the crook of one elbow before craning her chin down to plant a peck on her forehead. Kitty had taken quite a shine to Charlotte who found herself rocking the infant for hours on end, lost to her contemplations. 

 

She’d always been steadfast, paranoid even, about avoiding a baby herself. It was not uncommon in their line of trade to find yourself with a gaggle of them - most of the children given up to the Church’s orphanages or else taken by illness and death. Perhaps it was her shaky relationship with Ma or her fierce independence, but Charlotte took every precaution necessary to evade pregnancy herself. Further, it had been Lucy not her who’d taken to a little girl’s play - the few dolls they had were dragged around like babies at her feet. It had been Lucy whose optimism that they’d have a better life than their Ma drove her to fantasies of marriage and children. 

 

Charlotte was elsewise unable to envision her life beyond her arms’ stretch. It seemed to her that all of time was a gasping chasm into which she might someday retire, like one gone to bed early, forever. She was not morose about it... it was just that no evidence could be gleaned as to what her life might look like beyond her youth. The relationship with Ma was tenuous at best and Charlotte, afraid of their similarities more than their differences, refused to use Ma’s life as a mirror for her own. Yet, here she was: the new “bad” bawd of Greek Street. But she was no longer so bad, not the woman who whirled her way across the expanse of London’s social scene - hedging bets against herself, reckless in her actions. 

 

It had been a quiet year, one in which Charlotte could feel herself slipping inevitably into the depths of her vacancies. Business was fine, yes - but Charlotte had none of the ambition of Margaret. She did not imagine a larger house, did not seek out new girls to bring in a wider array of customers, and she did  _ not  _ plot the downfall of rival houses. Her leadership was passable, keeping their little lives afloat in the sea of chaos and destruction that lurked beneath their surfaces. A part of her, however subdued, felt more trapped than ever by her new position. So tired was she that if the law came to take her away for her numerous crimes, she might just go willingly to the shackles. Without a keeper to catch or culls at which to prod, Charlotte’s aimless thoughts turned and turned ceaselessly to her personal ghosts: Ma, Lydia, Abigail, and Isabella. 

 

In her arms, Kitty squirmed again and Charlotte decided to take the girl for a quick walk around the house. She loved these spins down the corridor and Charlotte found that Kitty’s little gurgling giggles were one of the few things to lift her spirits. The morning light trickled like water down the blue hall from the doorside windows. Charlotte cooed at Kitty before letting a finger tap softly at her tiny nose. Again, she giggled and Charlotte couldn’t help but beam back at her. 

 

A noise started outside, the crunch of rubble under the hooves of horses while a footsman could be heard shushing the beasts. Charlotte rolled her eyes.  _ Haven’t the wealthy fucks of London tired of us for at least a few hours?  _ That there could already be more culls on the way, so early in the morning, Charlotte struggled to believe. Securing Kitty to her side, she waited for the requisite knock at the door. 

 

It was softer than expected, more inquisitive than demanding. “I’ll be right there,” called Pa from upstairs, clearly still resting with Jacob after the long night. “I’ve got it, Pa. I’m not decent but it’s just a cull to turn away!” Charlotte called back up the stairs. 

 

The tentative knock returned once more before she had a chance to open the damn door. Kitty reached up for a strand of Charlotte’s hair, which she twirled around her finger while mumbling some more. Charlotte used her other arm to swing the heavy door open, expecting the irritation of charming a cull she’d inevitably have to turn away. 

 

Beyond the door was no cull: culls were men who paid their way into this Greek Street haunt. No, the person behind the door had never paid her a cent for her work or home. A chill went through Charlotte, seeping beyond her stays and chemise, which she now looked down at in embarrassment.

 

“Charlotte…” Isabella started.  She didn’t think she could stand to hear her name said in that voice. She couldn’t bear to face the Lady, on display as she was without her armor of gowns and powders. Charlotte had - for a few hours -  let herself believe that dawn would lift the veil: last night’s events rendered a kind of fever dream in which shadows both confounded and enticed, then banished themselves to memory come morning. 

 

Yet, the woman standing before her door was undeniably real, filling the frame of grey morning light with her wide skirts and height. Atop her head was one of her taller wigs, a dark brunette to match the spooling strand coming down around her neck. She appeared not a strand or thread out of place, impeccable in both dress and stature. Charlotte was momentarily transported back to the night they met: how when she’d walked through the open doors of the parlour, she’d encountered a woman of great height and sensibility, one who did not hesitate to tear her down at first glance. 

 

Charlotte straightened as best she could, preparing the mask she rarely employed these days. “Lady Isabella, what compels you to darken our doorstep this morning?” She smiled, despite the uneasy nausea that threatened to rise in her gut. It was a practiced grin, likely the same one she’d have used if the visitor  _ had  _ been a cull. 

 

Isabella paused, on the cusp of replying before her eyeline moved downward. It glanced over Charlotte’s loose curls and then down her exposed stays and chemise before arriving at the baby staring right back at her. The lady clearly recognized the girl, had held her once - tentatively - while staying in the house last year. Isabella’s eyes softened, her hand twitched at her side as though tempted to reach out for Kitty’s dusting of hair. 

 

The two women stood for a moment in silence, before Isabella summoned some inner resolve: “I know we’re not on the best of terms - in fact any terms at the moment, and that you’d much rather see me lying in a gutter than at your doorstep, but I have some information that I thought might bring you some peace of mind.” She trailed off, glancing down at her feet as though abashed by the sound of her own voice. This contradiction in Isabella frustrated Charlotte to wit’s end. The lady was in shifts confident, demanding, and shy to a fault. Last night, she’d spoken little, but her stare had rooted Charlotte to the floor - awed by her darkened aura. Now, in the light of day, she’d lost last night’s edge and Charlotte was somehow comforted by the realigning of their dynamic. Despite her lack of dress and the babe in her arms, she once again felt herself the more powerful of the two. 

 

“What makes you think I’d invite you back into this house again? After you sullied it with your petty betrayal?” Charlotte allowed the venom back into her voice. Isabella took two careful steps back before looking down at her skirts. 

 

“I will not argue with you Charlotte. I have been wretched, an apparent trademark of my kin. Still, I ask that you permit me entrance to your home one last time. If what information I have does nothing for you - even if it does - I swear that you will never see me standing here against your wishes again.” 

 

Isabella’s every word was rehearsed, uttered in the lofty tone she reserved chiefly for her brother. Charlotte despised it: the self-effacing smarm, the overly affected martyrdom that was far beneath a woman of Isabella’s intelligence and gall. 

 

Every time Charlotte had sent Isabella spinning off kilter, one way or another, she’d glimpsed a woman far more fascinating, ruthless, and enchanting than the one who now stood before her, meek as can be with her hands folded tight. Yet, despite her irritation, Charlotte could not deny the lady entrance. She stepped to the side of the doorframe, gesturing down the hall with her free arm. 

 

Isabella, momentarily gratified, stepped carefully into the half-dim blue of the hallway. She paused a moment, once again gazing down at baby Kitty, before flitting her eyes elsewhere - as though it hurt to look at the child’s face too long. Charlotte silently led Isabella, without instruction, to the now empty parlor. She’d later realize that Lucy had been spying on the two of them at the door and cleared the room for their inevitable conversation. 

 

The lady took a seat on the chaise. Charlotte could not help but recall the last time she’d seen Isabella sat there, just the same - heartbroken but straight-backed - with a secret resting uneasily on her tongue’s tip. It was undeniable that Charlotte so wished to know what the lady would reveal: it had been true then and was true once more. Some part of her could not deny Isabella a revelation or herself the temptation of sinking further into her well of secrets. 

 

Isabella was once more staring at the child in her arms as Charlotte stood in the doorframe. The heaviness that now filled the rooms the two occupied, more bitter than syrupy as it was a year ago, had Charlotte turning to call down the hall for Fanny. As though the girls were listening at the ready, the girl immediately came bustling over to take Kitty sparing Isabella only a split-second glance before heading upstairs.

 

Charlotte took a deep breath and closed the door behind her. In the light of day, Isabella’s features which had been shadowed that night by sadness, then relief, in the room’s lamplight were transformed. Still, she was beautiful, but she looked tired and forlorn - as though she too had a sleepless evening tossing and turning just like Charlotte, unable or unwilling to let the dark pass easily. 

 

Her first instinct, however misguided, was to offer Isabella something in the way of comfort. Charlotte scoffed at the idea - like Isabella had ever wanted for the finer things in life. Her brother had so tortured her, but she was still a lady - Charlotte reminded herself - afforded luxuries about which her girls could only fantasize. 

 

She took a seat on the far end of the chaise - regretting it immediately. This position mirrored exactly their composition that first night - like a painting hung invisibly in the air between them. Both women were silent a moment, seemingly lost to that other night and its revelations. Their bodies then had craned inward, inching toward each other, subject to vulnerabilities both physical and emotional. As Isabella had revealed more of herself to Charlotte, like a moth to a lamp’s burn, she’d swayed forward: wanting to touch, to comfort, to assure the woman that she was  _ not  _ damned, that Charlotte - though oblivious at the time - was so taken by her: taken with her skin, her voice, the way she’d risked her brother’s bruises to help Abigail. Charlotte wanted to show gratitude then, but also understanding. 

 

Now in the chilled light of day, whatever butterflies or moths or winged desire had gripped her then, mercifully kept still. Charlotte waited a moment or two, watching Isabella in glances, her eyes moving from wall to woman to furniture and then back again. Where the woman had been a near statue the night before, she now fidgeted ceaselessly, wringing her hands before reaching up to rub at her neck till it turned a light shade of pink. 

 

“Haven’t you something to say? Is that not why you’re sat here in my house after all this time? It’s not like I’m particularly pleased to see you.” 

 

Isabella glared for a moment, irritated, before she began: “When you told me last year that my brother was the ringleader of a group whose sole purpose was the rape and murder of young girls, I admit that I was dubious-”

 

Charlotte interrupted: “Why? Because your precious brother couldn’t possibly enact that kind of violence? He’s too above that, yeah?” Charlotte spat each word, trying to spark an argument. 

 

Isabella’s voice stayed even: “No. I know well the knife’s edge of his cruelty. I who have lived alongside him for so many years... I did not believe it, because I was selfish in my pain. I thought his attentions and dark appetites my burden alone. In fact, I built an entire life around that solitary confinement. To find that he’d been spilling so much blood away from home was a shock, one I did not take lightly.” Charlotte nodded, silenced for a moment.

 

Isabella continued: “So yes, I did not believe you for any number of the worst reasons. I took what information you did have and used it against you for my own independence and that of my daughter. In the process, I have temporarily rid myself of Harcourt who considered me so inept, so imbecilic that he left his affairs in quite a disorder.” She paused, as though to build some suspense.

 

“My brother, though childish in his conduct, appears to have kept quite extensive records of his and his brethren’s exploits. There was a log, bound in leather, hidden in his desk at Blayne estate that lists the dates and names of every girl whose violation in which Quigley has aided. I keep it hidden in my library in St James’ where I plan to employ its secrets if need be.”

Charlotte had expected something bigger, a bombshell of cataclysmic proportion would be the only excuse for Isabella to demand entry to her home. On her lips was a kind of rebuttal, a sneer, but Charlotte held it in. For a moment or two, she thought more about what the existence of such a diary meant for her, her family, Kitty who they’d lost, Abigail who she could not save. Isabella had so betrayed her when she had concrete evidence in the form of a bound and gagged Lord Fallon… why should she now bring this to her feet? 

 

“How do you propose to weaponize it? When that vermin returns, won’t he quickly find it missing?” 

 

Isabella’s lips quirked down. “Yes, I’m afraid it might reignite his ire when he finds it. That’s why I must find a way to present it to the law before then. So that they might be ready for him with shackles even his money and his charm cannot unlock. But some of its contents are a mystery to me. Before I bring it Justice Hunt, I must understand its every pen stroke. This is why I’m here.” 

 

She sighed before adding: “And because I know that you are braver than I can ever be. That you would know what to do with it. And that I might offer it as a kind of penance… I do not expect we will ever know each other as we half-did then, but it is my imperative to keep you safe now, whatever the cost, even if I must do it from a great distance. After all you’ve given me...”

 

Isabella trailed off, eyes once again turned down to her skirts. Charlotte softened involuntarily. She would not forgive Isabella her sins, but hadn’t she too not forgiven her mother of hers? A lack of forgiveness did not preclude affection and Charlotte knew enough of herself to sense that untrustworthy feeling sparking at her fingertips. An errant part of her wished to reassure Isabella that her trip here was not for naught, that Charlotte had been pleased in some contorted way to see the lady at her door (and to touch her so seriously and carefully last night). Charlotte warmed before extinguishing the thought like one blowing out a candle. 

 

“I don’t expect you’ve got this Satan’s log on hand?”

 

“No, I’m afraid to travel with it frankly.”

 

“So, I’ll need to come round yours then in St James’ just to get a glimpse of it?” 

 

Isabella blushed. “Yes, though I understand if you would not find that appropriate. If not, we shall leave our business at this and you can rest assured that I’ll--”

 

Charlotte broke in: “Do you not think it would be suspicious… Soho’s most notorious bawd, not behind Bedlam bar’s that is, just walking casually into the home of a lady such as yourself? The privacy of your former home is lost to you and St James’ as you well know can be quite the gossiping snake pit.” 

 

Isabella looked momentarily dismayed and Charlotte, who’d had no intention after last night of ever seeing the lady again, found herself once again in the mouth of a beast - this one temptation. “Just as we discussed last night, I can bring Jacob with me. If Sophia is there she can help him with his studies while you and I can...discuss other matters.” She cringed, disliking the ambiguity in what she’d said. 

 

Isabella nodded. “Saturday then? Morning? That is, if you’re not too tired from work the night before.” Her jaw tightened and Charlotte was so reminded for an instant of their encounter in Golden Square that she nearly laughed. 

 

“Counting coins can be tedious work, yes, but it does not prevent one from rising early the next dawn,” Charlotte said. “I think you’ll find I don’t do much else in the way of the family business these days.”

 

Eyes widening, Isabella parted her lips in surprise. Then, to Charlotte’s own surprise, she smiled: a small quirk of the lips, but one Charlotte had so rarely seen even in their hours spent together last year. And despite her anger, Charlotte was gratified by the smile: gratified as she’d been in Golden Square, sensing for the first time Isabella’s deeper desire. She’d been intrigued and then intoxicated by the idea that a lady (a  _ lady _ ) of Isabella’s stature might fancy her. Charlotte, who’d known the lustful words and gestures of many men, had teased and prodded at the notion - leaning forward to warm Isabella’s cheek with her kiss. And after she’d swept away, wafting perfume and leaving an invitation, Charlotte had felt the answering warmth of that gratification spread from her cheeks to the rest of her body. She’d glowed with it the rest of the day. 

 

Breaking Charlotte’s reverie, Isabella swayed a hair’s breadth forward, cheeks pinked. “This time you must promise to join me for breakfast.” She blushed further, fumbling: “You and young Jacob, that is - join Sophia and myself.” 

 

Charlotte nodded, standing. She reached a hand out to help the lady stand. Isabella’s palm slid against her own, an untoward friction that made Charlotte grind her teeth. When the lady was upright, Charlotte led her out of the parlor and once again down the blue hall. 

 

She thought she spotted Lucy’s skirts whipping around the kitchen door.  _ Nosy sprat _ . Charlotte turned toward a soft echo of footsteps coming down the stairs. 

 

“Have you done your washing Jacob?” Charlotte feigned at sternness under Isabella’s watchful eye. Jacob merely nodded before turning his attention to Isabella. The two had met and lived under the same roof a couple days, but Jacob had been shy around Isabella and Sophia - and too curious as to Ma’s whereabouts to linger long on the fine ladies’ sudden appearance. 

 

Now, a year older and much quieter, Jacob took a long glance at Isabella - at her wig, her jewelry, and her fine gown. He blinked slowly, as though registering some observation he would keep to himself, before turning back to Charlotte. 

 

“Jacob, you remember Lady Isabella?” He nodded again. 

 

“And Sophia, her daughter?” Another nod, this one slightly more enthusiastic. 

 

“Yes, she taught me a bit of calligraphy,” Jacob muttered. 

 

“She’s offering to teach you more of that. And possibly some history and arithmetic if you’d like?” Jacob shrugged, the closest he came to an affirmative answer these days. 

 

Isabella, who’d been silently watching until that moment, pulled from the folds of her skirt a small book, elegantly bound in honey brown leather. It’s spine ridged with golden lettering, Charlotte recognized it immediately. 

 

“Jacob, do you know the story Sir Gawain and the Green Knight?” Jacob shook his head. Isabella went to speak once more, but she was interrupted by Charlotte.

 

“You’d like it, Minnow. It’s a story of intrigue, romance, and adventure. Set in a time when men were not like the ones you see stomping through here each day.”

 

Isabella looked at her curiously. For a moment, Charlotte felt exposed - as though she’d revealed something telling in her simple summary. Isabella pulled her gaze back to Jacob, holding out the book. The boy took it carefully and his lips quirked, the closest expression resembling happiness she’d seen on his face in over a year. 

 

“Thank you,” he said sweetly before carrying the book off under his arm up the stairs and out of sight. 

 

The two women held a moment. “I did not realize you were familiar with Sir Gawain,” Isabella demurred. 

 

“Why? Do I not strike you as much of a reader?” Isabella, to Charlotte’s shock, laughed. 

 

“Quite the contrary. It’s no doubt you had to get your silver tongue from somewhere. How else is there to gain such a reputation for charm and wit?” Abashed, Charlotte couldn’t help but blush at the compliment. Isabella continued: “I simply had no idea you entertained romances.”

 

Charlotte held back any mention of her tongue, partially because she was so enjoying this conversation and did not want to spook the lady - and partially because she should not be  _ entertaining _ this conversation in the first place. 

 

“I took quite liberally from George Howard’s shelves, I must confess. Himself not a reader, seeing as he preferred betting games and frivolous, empty-headed politics, I had his dusty collection all to myself.” 

 

Isabella’s eyes grew fond then and the soft gaze made Charlotte blush further, mad at herself for revealing more useless, personal details. Still, she could not help but feel proud that she and Isabella had another shared interest outside plots for revenge. 

 

She gazed back a moment or two longer before stuttering back into motion, leading the lady back through the front door. Stood face to face across the jamb, Isabella’s eyes once again strayed to Charlotte’s dress. This time, they lingered - Charlotte thought - on the exposed skin of her neck and collarbone, then down further to the slightest swell of her chest. 

 

“I bid you farewell then. Until Saturday.”

 

“As you wish,” Charlotte replied. And with that, the lady turned and climbed into her waiting carriage. Charlotte watched its wheels churn town the cobbled street until it turned a corner out of sight. 

 

“You’ve now spoken more than a few words, haven’t you?” Nancy had crept up behind her, likely listening in on her conversation with Isabella this entire time.

 

“I’m taking Jacob for lessons with her daughter in a few days’ time.”

 

“And you? What will you learn?” Nancy smirked, tapping her cane into Charlotte’s side affectionately. 

 

“It appears I’ve learned nothing at all…” Charlotte said ruefully, before closing the door - her mind forfeit to an image of the Lady giving Sir Gawain her jewelry in the name of desire and allegiance. She recalled how heavy Isabella’s amethysts had rested in her palm when she traded them for Abigail’s liberty. And how her pearls had fallen like drops of milk into her hand that next night, the last pieces of a tenuous suit of armor removed for Charlotte’s eyes and hunger only. 

 

Sighing, Charlotte turned and climbed the stairs. Saturday would come before she knew it and she had to be ready for whatever Isabella had in store for her. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a breath forward for now... 20k and just getting things going... oh dear x


	6. Nobler Pleasures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlotte frets over her appointment in St James' | The two women can't resist their shared plotting

The week came and went in spats of work and rest. By Friday, Charlotte was befallen to her usual routine. Each week she visited Emily Lacey and Harriet at the House of Exotic Delights. Emily, who’d been scorned by Charles Quigley (in a ridiculous plot born of the woman’s desperation), had returned to work alongside Harriet - who now chiefly ran the daily operations of the brothel. Charlotte knew that Emily resented the other woman - had fancied herself a more benevolent Lydia in her singular power despite so loathing the grey beast.

 

Charlotte liked these visits, but they also made her uneasy. Her Ma’s voice echoed in her head, telling her to be wary of competition - to sniff it out and destroy it at any cost. Yet, Charlotte could not deny that the House of Exotics had a different aura and clientele and so she worried little over it. 

 

“How goes the Duchess of Quim?” Charlotte made her appearance known, striding into the dark red parlor where foreign fabrics hung like veils over the windows and furniture. Limehouse Nell was strewn, limbs long, across one of the chaises. She appeared asleep, but Charlotte spotted her slitted eye on her, keeping careful watch. Harriet was in the kitchen with Noah bantering over this or that errand that must be done; their voices could be heard, light and flirtatious, beyond the door. 

 

“Nosy question, I think.” And there was Emily, sat with her woes at the low betting table in the corner - a thumb of gin in her hand. 

 

“Now now, Emily, I know your spiteful humor is in there somewhere. I so count on it each week for my amusement.” Charlotte took the opposite seat. The other girl smiled thinly before pushing the bottle towards her. 

 

“Well I know boring old you could use a laugh every now and then. Tell me, what’s it like to lose that glimmer? I lost mine so long ago, I can hardly recall the glow.” 

 

“You think me a bore?”

 

“No, I think you a coward. What happened to the Charlotte who plotted to take down half of London society just a year ago? Remember when you swindled away George Howard’s fortune for sport? Luce tells me you’ve grown soft in Mag’s absence.”

 

Charlotte sighed. This was not the conversation she sought in coming here. Normally, Emily Lacey could be counted on for a spot of banter, a shite drink to burn one’s throat, and an hour or so respite from the tedium on Greek Street. 

 

“Ah, lighten up Duchess. You’ve never much cared for me so why bother with this so-called concern? Anyway, Lucy is the only one of us three to have any energy for the job left. Tell me, you taking new culls with that sad cow look on your face?” 

 

“I do, in fact. Turns out men don’t mind a woman in the throes of melancholy if their cock’s still wet - with tears or otherwise it don’t much matter to them. At least I’m still taking culls. You’re practically a penny-pinching nun as of late.”

 

“As you well know, I’ve had bigger jobs than all the girls in this house combined. Early to shine, early to retire seems a right fit.” Emily nodded, withdrawing momentarily from her barbs. 

 

They were quiet a moment, throwing back gulps of the sour gin. 

 

“You going to the fight tonight? Bloodbath at the witchin’ hour is what I’ve been told by Noah. I’m thinking of putting in a penny or two, take the edge of this god forsaken freeze that’s a’comin.” 

 

Will had been throwing much of his energy into his boxing circuit. Underground, much of its appeal came from word of mouth advertisement. The day of a fight, Greek Street and Covent Garden would be buzzing with under the table bets made and rumors thrown around. When night came each week, the inn found itself packed - overflown with drunken patrons eager to see two men throw punches until one collapsed on the floor. 

 

“I’m afraid I can’t this week. Business to take care of in the house,” Charlotte said. It was half true. She’d found her mind wandering the last few days, letting the upkeep of payments and bills fall on the wayside. 

 

“Oh? And not because you have an early morning appointment down the road in St James’?” 

 

_ Damn Lucy and her big mouth _ . Charlotte rolled her eyes, gathering her skirts to stand. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand Emily, but one does not simply turn away aristocracy when it comes knocking.” 

 

Emily stood as well, craning forward: “If you get us all into this murky stink shit again Charlotte, I swear to all that’s unholy… I will not be a part of it this time. I’ve lost everything! You may be a bore, but you have exactly what you need to stay the path. Don’t ruin it with this rich piss nonsense!”

 

Charlotte nodded curtly before swaying toward the door. Nell was now sat up, having clearly listened in to their every word. Charlotte did not know what to make of her expression. She liked the girl fine enough, had been impressed by her rebuff of Lydia last year, but she was an unknown quantity. Charlotte wasn’t positive she could trust her. 

 

She bid them both farewell without a word and strode out into the bustling street. After her visits, she generally went about her domestic tasks: what bread could they afford this week? What meat? Were there gowns to be darned, thread to be bought for that? But Charlotte found her mind scrambled by Emily’s assault. She stood still a moment, letting the oncoming gusts of people blow past in waves of color and sound. Her sight was foggy, her breathing quick as if she’d been running down the street. Perhaps it was a mistake to see Isabella again, to indulge her in the case against Harcourt’s brotherhood.

 

Her reverie was broken by Will and Jacob, walking side by side to the cart opposite her. Will spotted her, leaving Jacob to buy the carrots, onions, etcetera. He must’ve sensed her state, as he said not a word - merely rested a hand on her shoulder. 

 

They stood for a moment, then: “Don’t tell me you’ve let Emily Lacey ruffle your feathers.” Will grinned down at her. 

 

“Never. It’s my appointment tomorrow. I’m not positive it’s the right idea,” Charlotte said.

 

“Of course it’s a bad idea. Charlotte, you are flush with them. They come to you in fits. I’ve learned to let you have your reckless days.” 

 

“Why? Why not put a stop to what I seemingly cannot?”

 

“Because you are grown now, girl. And because I so love to see your reckless side - it’s been missing as of late.” 

 

“And you would let me do this?” Will nodded.

 

“Yes, but not for you. And not for that woman neither. But for Jacob.” He gestured with his chin over to the boy who now had a satchel of food under his arm. 

 

Will lowered his voice: “You know he’s bright as I do. I do not want my life for him. If he could just find some crack or crevice - an entry point into a trade that puts him behind a desk, not manning a door.” 

 

“You’re not like Ma. You’ve never been, but you know there’s no shame to be placed upon how we’ve chosen to make our way. Jacob knows that, knows what you do - and loves you the more for it, not in spite of it,” Charlotte reassured. 

 

Will let his shoulders fall: “Even still, though we have much to be grateful for after this strife and loss… I want him to have a peaceful family and children, to not worry that his wife will be torn from him. If he could get himself a clerk’s position, he might find that peace in some form or another,  not be left lonely with his work.”

 

Pa’s lips turned down, his eyes cast into some pain that Charlotte could not access. She knew he still felt keenly the sting of Ma’s exile. In some ways, it hurt him more to think of her adrift at sea and arriving on wild shores, alone in every possible way. 

 

Charlotte took his hand in her own: “Alright. Jacob will be the smartest of us, if he isn’t already. And we will resign him to paperwork while the rest of us indulge stranger delights.” She laughed and Pa did as well. 

 

Jacob now carried a second satchel, in which bread and oats must be hidden. The three of them walked home, going to their separate preparations for the night. Pa could be faintly heard pacing in his room, as though amping himself up for the fight to come. He’d recruited a few new young men to compete in his games - strong and charming, and like Noah themselves not above hustling for their coinage. 

 

The girls were dressed for the night in gowns audacious in hue and insensible in cut. It was a stark contrast from the feigned gentility of the Pleasure Gardens just last week. More at home in this dress, the girls lounged easily around the parlor - trading bits of bread and sausage and laughing freely with food in their mouths. It was early yet, but they’d soon leave Charlotte alone to traipse across the street. Many a working man attended the fights, daring not mention it at his place of employ. Charlotte could expect culls of modest means arriving later in the night and for that no real preparation was necessary. They were mostly young men, not picky in their delights, still high on the very idea of buying a harlot’s time with their own coinage. 

 

After the girls left, the house was eerily silent. With even Nance and Pa at the inn, it was only Jacob and Charlotte left at home. When she walked into the kitchen, she found the boy reading Isabella’s book and ignoring his bowl of broth. 

 

“Not hungry, minnow?” Jacob looked up, holding his finger between the book’s pages. 

 

“Just a little,” He murmured, picking his spoon up reluctantly. Then: “Charlotte, how do you know Lady Fitzwilliam?”

 

Charlotte was taken aback. Jacob so rarely showed interest in the goings on of the house. He was ever watchful, of course - witness to the myriad atrocities and pleasures - but shied away from asking direct questions. Charlotte took the seat beside him.

 

“She and I met under strange circumstances last year. You know that I was living at Mrs. Quigley’s for awhile, but I was also working for her. She asked me to get Lady Fitz to introduce me to her circle of friends and so I went one night to her great big house.” It was a wild oversimplification, but she didn’t exactly feel comfortable discussing extortion with Jacob. 

 

Jacob blinked, then: “And you were very good friends? Good enough that she would come stay here with Sophia?” Charlotte paused, mulling over how best to describe her “friendship” with Isabella. What she’d called friendship then was certainly more complicated than it appeared And what to call it now, if not friendship? If not allies by circumstance, then acquaintances who shared a mutual interest? Two women who would share a morning together tomorrow, but who’d shared a different such morning a year prior? 

 

“We had each other’s interests in hand… for a time,” Charlotte responded. Jacob nodded, but she could see in his eyes a dozen other questions - none of which Charlotte could answer with any kind of certainty. 

 

Instead, he asked: “And why does she now take an interest in me?” Charlotte paused. She knew Isabella’s true motives lay with her, but she could not help but to remember the lady’s warmness with her brother, how she’d thought to bring the book knowing quite well she might’ve been turned away altogether. 

 

“Because you are well worth takin’ an interest in, minnow. Pa and I think there’s a trade for you beyond this house and Isabella and Sophia can help you on your way down that path.” 

 

“I want to do what Pa does,” Jacob retorted - but Charlotte could see in his eyes the temptation before him. He’d borne witness to the chaos of their lives, stood quietly aside as dead bodies were towed in and out the front door. A child, cursed by proxy, will do just about anything to escape. Charlotte knew this well - had been the same some years ago, creating a gulf between herself and her mother, one foot out the door at the slightest revelation of Mag’s true nature. The fear of similarity, of a world that would mould her in her mother’s image, drove her out the door at 14, a child sent bewitching a culture beyond her means. 

 

Charlotte knew she shared that same instinct for escape with Jacob. Dutiful though he may be in his affections, his loyalty a trademark of remaining youth, he did not demonstrate the slavish idolatry of Lucy - who’d been so spoiled by Ma’s coddling that she’d lost herself in totality when it came time to work. Jacob was resigned as Charlotte was and thus contained the spark for elsewise notions. 

 

“Even so,” Charlotte said, “there’s an entire world outside this house that’s worthy of your talents. Think of how you might travel, Jacob, gone from white-washed marble buildings to France or Spain or Italy.” Jacob smiled at that, seemingly pleased by the idea. Charlotte ran a palm over his hair and left him to his reading.

 

For an hour or so she sat in the parlor alone, watching the shadows of passing strangers out on the town, their swishing skirts and long strides. Even a year ago, she’d have been morose shutting herself in like this, itching to join the anonymous throngs of half-familiar faces. Then there’d been purpose - a facsimile of joviality in the name of revenge or boredom. Now, there was a kind of settling, languid pursuits confined to the home and hearth. 

 

Yet, some part of her longed for the lost whirl of social climbing. Her own talents for beguiling and charming were gathering dust. Emily’s words from that morning came back to her. It had been months since her last lay and last night’s weakness was all the more reason to remedy the dry spell.  There was still time yet to change her mind: go to the inn and have a drink or four, find a young man who looked nothing like Isabella - with tan skin, light hair, grisled and humorous - not enigmatic and forlorn. 

 

She wanted the simplicity of the fuck, the exhilaration of knowing nothing about the person between her legs and not caring to. To be free, no longer ensnared by Isabella’s enduring blanks, no longer aching for the intimacy of the lady’s true nature and yet held at a divide from it. Lust, however misguided, she could manage. But what she felt for Isabella had shallows and depths not yet excavated. She was afraid of what she might find if she dipped even her toe back into that dark pool. Still, tomorrow she would see the lady, speak with her, allow her brother around her daughter (the mingling of their families brought her some disgruntled happiness) - because she simply couldn’t help herself. Pa was right - rash wiles were her very nature. She could not turn away the ante’d bet, the fist that threatens riches or bruises.  

 

Always, she’d considered that spontaneity a boon: it freed her from her mum’s wretched house and brought her fine things she’d only dreamed of as a child. But the sun was setting on that part of her life, had perhaps already dipped beneath the horizon of her youth. Charlotte who was young, though not as young as she once was, had never felt older. Running Ma’s house and restitching all her defenses had worn her down, left her quiet and mature and  _ boring _ . 

 

She swung her legs over the side of the chaise as if to stand up and walk out the front door, but then she remembered Jacob upstairs, likely pretending to sleep as he read his book, so she lowered herself down to the cushion once again. She had to be in her finest armor for tomorrow, yes, but she also did not like to leave the boy at home alone in the house. Not anymore. When murder had graced their doorstep, swept its fog down their halls, she could not leave the boy on his own. Sighing, she stood up and returned to the kitchen for a stale bit of bread and a few slices of fruit. 

 

Overcome by a wave of exhaustion, she looked round at the clock on the wall which indicated the hour. It was far later than she’d expected. Apparently she’d been stewing in her personal melodramas for hours. Beyond the door she could hear the revelry pouring out of the inn and onto the cobbled streets. Men and women alike drunkenly sang Irish jigs and stumbled around, their low wooden heels clapping against the stones.

 

Charlotte arranged herself against the stair’s bannister, one hand on her padded hip and the other leaning - in a casual display - against the curled wooden slats. A practiced smile already played at the corners of her lips as the knob turned. In came girl after girl with a young cull on their arm, just as she knew they would. They queued up as though awaiting admission into the parlor and Charlotte greeted each man with a tip of her chin and a flash of her eyes. This was her house now and though she did little of the work herself, each man was in a way her customer, a puppet whose strings yielded coins to cool in Charlotte’s palm.

 

Business proceeded, Charlotte collected the house cut, and one by one the men left earlier than expected. Young and still dazzled by harlots at their behest, they finished fast after a single round, their pintles wavering in the whisky daze of night. Tonight the girls were tired, having had their own fair share of drink, and stumbled off to their respective beds with little more than a nod at Charlotte as they went. Lucy, who’d elected to skip the fanfare, was on a job overnight at some city estate belonging to the Duke and Duchess from the Gardens. 

 

All was quiet in the house, a stillness borne not of foreboding but of contentment. Charlotte marked the moment with a sigh, climbed the stairs, and found her own bed waiting for her. 

 

* * * * * * * 

 

Isabella had always woken early. Rarely did she sleep soundly, afraid of trickster Morpheus who came to her with only haunting visions, never rest. There was a kind of practicality to rising early as well: if she could beat Harcourt down to breakfast, she might be able to avoid him a few hours more. He called her a bore: early to rise, early to sleep, often leaving parties in their own home not long after dark, a faux yawn parting her lips. Of course, she stayed awake as the festivities waxed and waned, as far away from Harcourt’s friends as possible. Sometimes, she read. Usually, she laid on her side in bed, the lamps extinguished, listening for signs of life on the eaves just below her windows. There were mourning doves whose coos she counted with regularity. Though she could not see them, she knew their numbers by the frequency of their mating calls. All things in twos: mated doves, night and day, burn and chill. Isabella wondered whether her fated duo was to always be by her wretched brother’s side. Perhaps, nature in her instance intended such an unnatural pairing - as punishment. 

 

Though he had not touched her beyond the exposed skin of her neck and shoulders in decades, he treated her as his wife in everything but bedfellows. A most despicable marriage of Harcourt’s whims to her weaknesses. She longed to be alone her whole life - truly alone - and yet now as she woke before the lagging October light, she wished for that companionship that others seemed to possess and cherish. 

 

Today, Charlotte would come to her - or, at least, to her house. With her, young Jacob, ready to attend lessons with Sophia. Her daughter was pleased by the notion of working with the boy and had spent all week after her own studying was done selecting books, poems, and maps. Yesterday, she’d set them all up in the sunniest, warmest corner of the library, spread neatly upon a table for two. The girl was kind, a quality that Isabella’s worn edges could neither accommodate nor implicitly understand. She’d grown cruel under her brother’s forced employ. Her rapport was frail, but brittle, among the overly polite women of the beau monde, who traded barbs under the pretense of gentility. 

 

She’d even employed that sour wit against Charlotte. When the girl came to meet her, at Lydia’s behest, she’d monologued a series of insults - even called the girl a brazen strumpet. Charlotte had kept smiling, as though amused by Isabella’s takedown of her character and reputation. She’d admired that fortitude, herself unable to keep the frown from her lips, the tears from her eyes, when Harcourt debased her - in public or private. 

 

In just a few hours, that strength - one she knew Charlotte possessed from birth but also must toil to maintain - would enter her new home, imbue the walls with color and life. The simplest, even saddest moments with Charlotte - a walk through the gardens, discussing poor Abigail - heightened her senses, made her take notice of the beauty around her, as though the woman were a prism through which Isabella’s fractured passions might find at last their bit of light. 

 

Sally knocked at the door before letting herself into Isabella’s room. Already, she stood tall before the long mirror, waiting for her lady’s maid to pull her together for the day. Sally smiled softly, a sweet but quiet thing, and asked the lady in a murmur which gown she might like to wear. Isabella opted for a lighter sheaf of gabardine,  not the usual brocade heaviness that pulled at her bosom. She was to stay home today, technically, even if she was entertaining. She could perhaps lower her defenses. Unlike the Blayne Estate where Charlotte’s aura had so diffused into the walls, this house was hers alone. Though she might now elect to share it with the younger woman, she held some of its authority, its power, in her grasp. 

 

As Sally tied a final securing knot at the bottom of her stays, she reached for the pins and wig that Isabella preferred.

 

“I think we’ll leave it down today, Sally.” Isabella smiled at the girl who looked surprised for only a moment before nodding and moving instead to the potted powders and tinctures. She kept it light on her face, allowing the finery of wrinkles under her eyes and around her mouth to remain unveiled. The mask she wore caked, stripping her skin to dry bone by day’s end. She would leave it off for Charlotte, her daughter - only those who would not cringe to see her bare, who would not repel from the monstrosity of her age or countenance. 

 

Downstairs, Sophia was lazily perched at the table, chewing with a book in her hand. When Isabella entered, she looked up and smiled, laying the book in her lap still open. 

 

“It’s so nice to see you entertaining with your hair down, Mother. How you can stand that wig all day is beyond me.” Sophia made every effort in convincing Isabella to loosen up - be less serious, less old-fashioned -  and to have some fun even just around the house. Isabella both resented and loved the girl for it. She, who’d been so set in another’s ways - not even her own - that she rarely chose her own gowns, her own jewelry. Under Harcourt’s thumb, it was all premeditated, foisted upon her along with her brother’s desired personality traits. He liked her to be catty, childlike, impish within her bounds - submissive at the right moments, argumentative at others.  

 

Isabella nodded at her daughter before sitting down to nibble noncommittally at the spread. She was nervous, incredibly so, and her appetite nonexistent. It was past nine already and Charlotte and Jacob were due by half past. Sophia finished her breakfast and went to rest a moment in the sunny parlor. As the light moved restlessly across the dining room’s pale walls, Isabella rehearsed as she was wont to do: what she would say upon their arrival, what she might offer them in the way of tea, how she would lead Charlotte to the study instead of the library and proffer the cursed tome to her in penance. 

 

By presupposing the entire morning, Isabella might conjure up the possibility of a success from thin air, something to ironclad her senses against the onslaught that was Charlotte’s wit, ire, and beauty. Their last conversation had been a compromise of wills, in which she’d failed to communicate the urgency of the task at hand. The revelation of the ledger was meant to bring Charlotte back into the fold, to prove that Isabella was no imbecile, that she could still be valuable to the girl, despite her innumerable failings. 

 

Minutes passed as Isabella sat still at the table. The warm, morning light inched from the corner of one window into the other and then: Andrew’s swift and silent entrance. 

 

“My lady, a Miss Charlotte Wells and her young escort are here to see you.”

 

Isabella nodded, nervous but resolute. “Please bring them to the library instead of the parlor.” Andrew turned smoothly on his heel and closed the doors behind him once more. Isabella paused to take stock of her fortifications: her dress was casual, yes, but appropriate for weekend entertainment. Already in the study, she’d spread Harcourt’s papers neatly about the desk with the cursed ledger at their center. 

 

After just a breath or two more, she rose from the table and went to fetch Sophia. The girl was excited to share what she’d prepared with Jacob and her joy helped to dim Isabella’s nerves a bit. When they entered the library, Jacob was sat politely on one of the low chaises, his ankles crossed and fingers wound together. His eyes flickered to the fineries around him, but then seemed to think better of their wandering. 

 

Charlotte, not one for propriety for propriety’s sake, was stood before Sophia’s sprawling spread of papers and books. She traced a lazy fingertip along the line of some map - which one, Isabella could not spot. Isabella thought she might’ve mouthed something, but couldn’t be sure from this distance. She cleared her throat to announce her and Sophia’s arrival.

 

Charlotte withdrew her hand, seemingly startled for a moment and looked up at Isabella abashed. They stared at each other for a blink before Charlotte righted herself, drawing up to her full height, spine straight.

 

“Lady Fitz, good morning. Thank you for having us to your home.” Charlotte tipped her chin up just so and gestured with a hand to her brother now sat next to Sophia on the chaise. The two were quietly speaking to each other and Charlotte was momentarily taken with the image. 

 

“Might I offer you anything?” Charlotte turned at the question, a single eyebrow raised. She said nothing, though her gaze was teasing, the brow suggestive. Isabella cursed herself, blushing under the scrutiny of the girl’s lidded eyes. Charlotte smiled as though partaking in a joke with no one other than herself. 

 

“I’m fine. Though Jacob was peckish at breakfast this morn’.” The boy looked up and shook his head. “I’m not hungry,” he said softly. The maternal instinct in Isabella - one nurtured once again by the arrival of Sophia into her life, which had flickered through her lonely years in the form of rides around the park - kicked in. She turned and gestured for Andrew, whispering an instruction before he set off for the kitchen.

 

“Nonsense. There will be tea and cake, I think. It’s the perfect, beautiful morning for it.” Isabella nodded to herself, turning to Charlotte once more. The woman was still smiling, but it was no longer the self-gratified smirk - replaced instead by something more ambiguous, the curve of her upper lip concealing therein some question Isabella would not have the courage to ask, not today at least. 

 

With a hand on the boy’s shoulder, Sophia led Jacob to the paper laden table while Isabella drifted (along with Charlotte) toward the chaises. 

 

Charlotte tipped her head towards them: “Like brother and sister already, they are.” She said it so softly, Isabella nearly missed it. As though regretting the words, Charlotte straightened up and turned toward the Lady, regarding her. Her eyes flicked up to Isabella’s long hair, loosely braided and falling around the hollow of her neck. She’d let it grow longer in the last year, nearly as long as she’d had it in her youth. 

 

Charlotte dug a fingernail in the side of her thumb, the slight muscles in her hands flexing. It was one of her few nervous habits, a give that most would not care to notice. Otherwise, her posture was casual, her eyes suitably alert. She seemed for all the world at home in Isabella’s new house - as though she took breakfast here every morning. Isabella returned her quiet consideration for a moment. As Charlotte’s arm bent her slowly into a dignified recline, Isabella thought of her months with George Howard. He’d been a haunt of the St. James’ scene in those years, a thorn in the side of every decent soiree. 

 

Isabella struggled to imagine the Charlotte of before - before George Howard’s pitiful demise and before Lydia Quigley. Had she really been the girl so bewitching so as to entice half the peerage under her spell? Had she been the girl on Harris’ list - a dazzling idol of their wretched times? Looking at her now, the woman’s gaze turned again toward her brother, Isabella took in her matured countenance. Yes, she was the same girl. And yet, the things that might’ve made Isabella frown then, besmirch the anonymous CW, now rounded out the image of the woman Isabella… 

 

It was a thought she’d better not finish: a hopeless one. She was a lady, a spinster, a lost cause who’d finally grasped with sharpened nails the only bit of peace she could afford in this world. Who was she to be greedy? She had her daughter, her home, her small pleasures - the light through the windows, the well-tread halls, her heavy and uninterrupted sleep. 

 

Isabella, who’d never had a lover before Charlotte, could not imagine wanting another. She’d fought tooth and nail to be alone - to own her loneliness completely on her own terms. She did not care for company and so she’d been surprised by the shared affinity she’d found with Charlotte. The two could speak past each other endlessly, circumventing the realities of their feelings, their beliefs - and yet here was a duality and understanding unmatched by any Isabella had ever gleaned. 

 

As Sophia and Jacob delved further into their lesson, Isabella stood up. 

 

“Charlotte, I thought we might speak in the study while these two are busy.” She reached out a hand, mirroring the one Charlotte had proffered last week on Greek Street, so that Charlotte might rise. 

 

The other woman hesitated and then grasped Isabella’s palm firmly, rising from the chaise and standing before the lady closer than before. The friction between their hands nearly made Isabella pull back, but Charlotte’s hold lingered just a moment or two longer before finally relenting. 

 

“Show me the way then.” 

 

* * * * * * * 

 

The house was not what Charlotte was expecting. Thus far, she’d fallen in love (against her will) with its walls and rooms. Where the Blayne estate had been envisioned in pale pastels and gold fittings, Isabella’s house in St. James’ was awash in color. The chaises and curtains were a deep green with fine speckled marble pillars lining the halls. The decor was decidedly more feminine, yes, but it was also that this house felt  _ lived  _ in. Isabella had moved through the Estate like a ghost, someone only half there, a spirit. Here, the very fixings and fabrics echoed Isabella’s sensibility. 

 

Charlotte had always imagined a house like this one. When she and Lucy and her mother had lived in Covent Gardens in a row home both ramshackle and drafty, she’d lie awake in her narrow bed thinking of plush feather-stuffed pillows and having a room just for reading or eating. The cold light that had left Isabella’s rooms bereft of warmth at the Estate was nowhere to be found here. Each day, the air grew chillier, yet great streaks of light came through these windows, providing pockets of heat. 

 

The house was not nearly so large as the Estate and thus, Isabella and Charlotte’s awkward but companionable silence did not overextend itself. Isabella opened a tall wooden door down the hall and beyond it was the study. The room, populated by dark wood shelves and chairs, was a degree or two chillier than the rest of the house. Everything was in neat order - not a quill or inkwell out of place. 

 

“Please, have a seat.” Isabella moved behind the desk, pulling a gold key from the pocket beneath her gown.

 

Charlotte lowered herself slowly into the cool chair, suddenly tense. Resisting the urge to fidget, she crossed one ankle below the other under her skirts. As Isabella fiddled with the stubborn lock, Charlotte observed her. The lady - though evidently nervous, a fact which gratified Charlotte to no end - was more relaxed than she’d ever seen her. Whenever Charlotte had gone to visit her at the Estate, she’d swished about in her voluminous skirts, shoulders drawn up below a tense neck. Her eyes had been shifty, afraid to give away her true thoughts, but unable to conceal the disgust she felt at her brother’s needling. 

 

Isabella finally got the drawer open, pulling a very few loose pieces of parchment from its depths. From under those, she wedged up the corner of the drawer’s velvet bottom. In her hands emerged a blood-red book, narrowly bound and with Harcourt’s initials finely scripted across its cover. Isabella handled it carefully - but not gently. It seemed a cursed thing, though valuable in its own right. Charlotte thought the lady would rather see it burn than look at it another moment. 

 

She placed it on Charlotte’s end of the desk, slowly coming around the corner to stand beside her seat. At this angle, the lady towered over her and Charlotte nearly insisted that she sit - if only to spare Charlotte’s nerves awhile longer. 

 

“Isabella, please..” The lady turned toward her sharply. Charlotte cleared her throat and paused a moment. She was being too polite, too forgiving in her mannerisms. Steeling herself, she decided to stand instead. She never had the advantage of height, but she’d once intimidated Isabella and could do so again. 

 

She swept around the lady’s skirts, erring a little too close for comfort. Isabella’s lips pressed together into a thin line, but she held still as Charlotte leaned over the ledger. Their position was a near mirror of that morning in Golden Square. This time though, it was not an earring Charlotte reached for, but something worth far more - if they could it employ it with care. 

 

With Isabella’s hair down, not pinned up under a feathered hat, Charlotte realized her miscalculation. The lady too was looking down at the book, her tresses hanging loosely around her face. As Charlotte opened the book, her bare forearm brushed against a dark, spooling strand. Without thinking, Charlotte swept it gently back over Isabella’s shoulder. 

 

Isabella exhaled a quiet but sharp breath. Blinking back some reaction, she flipped through the pages to the last entry, which detailed young Abigail’s descent. 

 

She cleared her throat: “See here, the date and name of the girl. And the viper Quigley’s initial next to it. All in Harcourt’s distinctive hand and bound in a book bearing his crest and initials. Not much in this world is irrefutable for a man like my brother. But this might be the closest we could ever come.” 

 

Charlotte said nothing, tracing a finger over Abigail’s name and then, strangely, the scrawling, scripting Q.

 

“He’s detailed his every rape? As though it were mere parliamentary procedure?” Her mouth curled in disgust, a frown drawn down further by her own hand in Abigail’s case. 

 

Isabella paused, then: “Not all of them.” 

 

Charlotte looked up at her sharply. The lady’s eyes were shining, but passive. She could not deny that she’d like to offer some comfort and that she took some relief in the fact that she would not be flipping past Isabella’s own violation. 

 

“If we turn back -” and she flipped to the first page “- the initial is no longer a Q. What I can’t figure out and what might decide the fate of any case we pursue, is who this mysterious ‘M’ is.” Charlotte blinked at the unasked question, eyes flitting round the room as though the answer might be hidden in one of the wood panels. Lydia’s past was not one she knew well. Her mother spun no biography beyond the fated shoes, the wigged beast who raised her and Nance with a cruel hand. Lydia’s only known relation, to Charlotte, was her idiot son Charles. The two alone reigned over Golden Square. In her time there, she’d never met a relative or friend… 

 

Charlotte froze in her musings: that was true - she’d never met a friend of Quigley’s, but when the law came to lock the doors of Golden Square, Lydia had brought them to Mrs. May. 

 

“M, you said?” Charlotte continued: “Isabella..”

 

The lady looked back at her, rapt to her every word.

 

“At the Pleasure Gardens, last year, do you remember seeing Lydia sat across the water?” 

 

Isabella nodded: “Of course, how could I forget with her beady eye turned toward us the entire time.”

 

Charlotte smiled thinly. “Yes, but she was not alone. At her table, there was another woman. One Mrs. May… I think she was some kind of mentor of Lydia’s. I can’t be sure. We stayed in her home when Golden Square was shuttered - creepy, pokey little house with porcelain dolls everywhere. It’s where…” 

 

Charlotte broke off. It was where she’d first ‘entertained’ Harcourt - played the eager and exciting mistress to his whims. He’d paid enough for an entire night in that blue monstrosity of a house. 

 

“It’s where you lay with my brother.” Isabella’s voice was tight, clipped. Her throat moved heavy with her swallow and Charlotte ached to relieve that tension, reassure the lady that she too regretted that night, abhorred it. But what choice had she then? She’d pretended to be the crushed insect under Lydia’s thumb so very well for a time, but it had cost her once again the illusion of choice. 

 

“Will you always hold that against me?” Charlotte’s own voice was weaker now, tired. 

 

“I hold nothing against you and you everything against me. Rightfully so.”

 

Charlotte was speechless a moment. She’d been expecting some of Isabella’s catty attitude to return. The paid dalliance with her brother had remained an unacknowledged sore spot between them in the weeks after the fact. Isabella’s voice was not resentful, just resigned - as though Charlotte’s place in her mind had permanently shifted from balm to pain: another regret to ache in her side. And though Charlotte  _ did  _ resent her, blame her for the failures of their short allyship, it hurt her to think that she’d lost the little power she had to help ease the lady’s pain. 

 

All of this was too confounding for an early morning, especially so for an auspicious one like this. Charlotte swallowed back her true thoughts and continued: “Mrs. May, ancient as she is, still lives in Knightsbridge to my knowledge. Looking at these pages, it appears she knew your brother long before he even met Mrs. Quigley. If she was his procuress at the start, she might have something to offer in the way of evidence.” 

 

Isabella nodded. “But would she give anything up?” 

 

“No, I’d think not. She observed me and Lydia quite closely. I think she saw the cracks in my mask long before Quigley did. Even threatened me if I did anything to harm her. She’s a saccharine old cow, but she might murder me if given the chance.” 

 

“So I will have to confront her myself. I suspect she knows more about me than I know about her given her relationship with my brother. Perhaps she can be manipulated into illuminating his crimes.” 

 

Charlotte thought of Isabella, in her full finery and towering wig, stood in Mrs. May’s powder blue hell. Though decrepit and unsightly, Mrs. May’s threat had landed with more than a dull thud in Charlotte’s lap. She did not like the idea of Isabella going alone where she might be razed by an attack. Quigley had held one secret, the biggest one, but who knows what other ill will Mrs. May might have for Isabella. No, she would not let the lady go unaccompanied. Even if it meant risking her own safety, she would not allow it. 

 

“You will not,” Charlotte said, voice sterner now. Isabella, surprised, closed the book and turned to her. 

 

“Though I’d flay myself willingly at the flame of your hatred Charlotte, I will not be a marionette hung from your strings. You do not tell me what I can and cannot do - no one does now.” 

 

Charlotte parted her lips, prepared to argue. Angry words gathered mutinously on the back of her tongue, a poison at the ready should she wish to employ it. For the first time since their uneasy re-entry into each other’s lives, Charlotte felt some genuine ire. Their first encounter had been so imbued by sadness and that blue, blue night. Last week’s conversation on Greek Street had taken her too much by surprise. Only now did they stand on any kind of common ground, once again conjoined by their fresh plot. 

 

Her annoyance and the accompanying instinct to bicker made Charlotte feel oddly closer to Isabella than she had since their reunion. Before them on the desktop laid a testament to their cruel reality and yet there could still be some squabbling, some banal friction. That they could still coexist like this - strangely rendered equal by their individual pettiness. 

 

Isabella sighed deeply, reaching once more for Harcourt’s journal. Charlotte watched as she licked the edge of her thumb, a shock of pink tongue appearing for a split second and drawing Charlotte’s eye, before the lady carefully flipped to the last page of the book, Abigail’s entry laid bare once more.

 

“I can’t help but think a ‘C’ should be burned there next to the ‘Q’,” Charlotte said.  _ Or, perhaps, an ‘A’ burned into my own arm so that I might not pass a day without due repentance for my crimes _ . Isabella swallowed again, reaching a slow hand out to brush the back of Charlotte’s fingers. 

 

“I meant it when I said it was his crime, not yours. You took a gamble with the fate of another’s life in the hopes that you might save the people you love.”  _ Same as you _ Charlotte responded internally, then pushed the thought aside. Isabella’s hand drew back just as slowly. 

 

The tears in Charlotte’s eyes kept mercifully at bay, but her fingers flinched at Isabella’s withdrawal. It  _ was _ her crime. She’d been an accomplice to cruelty for her own ends. And yet, she could not help but see the parallels with Isabella’s own decision. 

 

“When will you go to Mrs. May?” Charlotte asked. 

 

“Tomorrow. I’ve held off mentioning this until now, but my brother plans his return eminently. He has some so-called business to wrap up in Paris, but will return to London by the New Year.”

 

“I thought you said the two of you don’t correspond…” Charlotte looked at Isabella warily. Isabella shook her head. 

 

“We do not. I heard of this through Lord Chamberlain’s wife. If Harcourt intends to begin again with his sordid Spartan club, we’ll need to pre-empt his arrival.” 

 

“Will you come back here when your business with Mrs. May is done?” 

 

“I trust I’ll make it out unscathed for my afternoon tea and cake.” Charlotte laughed. It was Isabella’s best attempt at a joke and she was grateful for the bit of tension it released in the room. The two were silent a moment.

 

“How will you plan your attack? I can’t imagine a reason a Lady such as yourself would be visiting old Mrs. May’s house. It’s even bawdier than mine.” 

 

“Perhaps I will pretend to be a client.” Charlotte believed this to be another joke, but there was no humor in Isabella’s expression. 

 

“You’ve got to be kidding. Do you think she’d believe that?” Something else bothered her, more than just the obvious holes in Isabella’s plan. 

 

Isabella pressed her lips together, offended by Charlotte’s mocking. “I’m an independently wealthy woman of some unconventional means. You’d be shocked to hear what the gossiping peerage has to say about me behind my back as of late, Ms. Wells. I’m sure my 50 guineas will curry some temporary favor with Mrs. May.” 

 

“Yeah,” Charlotte scoffed, “50 guineas for her conversation and some nubile young thing’s muff thrust in your face.” She’d never spoken like this before with Isabella, but she felt her face heating up and not just in irritation. She did not fancy the idea of Isabella being handled by some girl, even for the purposes of a ruse. Charlotte felt her hackles rising at the prospect. 

 

“If she is indeed the ruthless procuress of that damned book then she certainly won’t blink at ‘procuring’ for my so-called unnatural desires, no?” Charlotte remembered Mrs. May’s house rules (no bestiality essentially) and shuddered. No, she certainly would not. 

 

“And what will you do when she expects you to take one of the girls upstairs?” 

 

Isabella shifted uneasily: “I will find some way to deflect the girl’s attentions, I’m sure.” 

 

Charlotte let out a breath, relieved for the time being. She tried to imagine what kinds of girls Mrs. May might keep behind the door of her room of earthly delights. Would they be fair like Quigley’s girls or more colorful in their practices? How might they entice a woman like Isabella? The lady had been like an enchanting work of stone when they’d met - impenetrable and yet, undoubtedly attractive. Would any common harlot recognize the shadows behind Isabella’s eyes or would she merely see her fortune? And who was Charlotte to blame a girl trying to make her way - wasn’t she too once that girl, happy to benefit off the fortune of any man or woman of any such standing? They made her head ache, the questions, and she feared her own undoubted jealousy (disguised as morbid curiosity) would jeopardize this tenuous alliance.

 

She decided to let it lie. For now. “Very well. You’ll report back soonest after that?” It was Charlotte’s voice that was clipped now, the jealousy she expected from Isabella earlier drawing her own brows together in a furrow. 

 

“Of course.” As Isabella swept back around the corner of the desk, placing Harcourt’s book back into its hiding place, Charlotte moved towards the door. They’d been in here maybe an hour, no more. Jacob’s lessons were surely still in progress in the library. 

 

Charlotte hadn’t planned for spare time. As Isabella and her made their way back down the hall, she considered her options. She might leave for her errands, go back to Greek Street or Covent Garden for an hour or two and then return to fetch Jacob. Or she might leave altogether - let Lucy or even Will come get him and bring him home. Both those options felt cowardly, an excuse to rid herself of the turmoil she felt under Isabella’s watchful gaze. She’d promised to stay with her brother the entire time and demonstrate an interest in his studies, but that camaraderie came with the caveat of suffering her lingering, unwanted affection for Isabella. 

 

The two women stood in the hall just outside the library from which emanated the soft tones of Sophia’s explanations: this or that king demolished this or that civilization and built this or that monument to himself. Charlotte was not one for grand tales of male hubris, but she could concede that Sophia had a talent for speaking, not unlike her mother. The young voice was smooth and even, lilting as it skipped from one sentence to the next. 

 

Isabella cleared her throat: “Shall I call a coach to bring Jacob back to Greek Street after his lessons are done? I would not want to rush him or Sophia.” Though her voice was bright in its offer, Charlotte spotted the regretful downward curve of Isabella’s lips. Perhaps, the Lady did not want her to go so soon after all. She wavered a moment, then gave in.

 

“I said I would watch Jacob and so I shall. I hope it won’t be too much trouble for you if I might wait for him here?” Isabella blinked, her eyes flicked back and forth between Charlotte’s eyes and lips. She cleared her throat again. 

 

“Very well. Shall I give you a proper tour?” 

 

Charlotte smiled. 

 

“I’d like that.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK I lied this is going to have far more plot than I initially realized. Hope Isabella doesn't get herself into too much trouble...


	7. Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabella goes to Mrs. May's and gets more than she bargains for. Meanwhile, Charlotte anxiously awaits news of the plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of the teaser coming out, here's chapter seven. You'll notice that I've used bits of the clues from that in terms of what dynamics we might see to inform this. Enjoy!

 

When Sophia and Jacob were done, mother and daughter escorted the two outside where a carriage took them the short distance back to Greek Street. Charlotte had argued that she and Jacob could walk - in fact could do with the exercise - but Isabella insisted and not for the first time that day, Charlotte relented.

 

It had been a morning of extremes: the planning and sparring in the study, the quiet contentment over tea following. Isabella had taken Charlotte round the house slowly, starting with the kitchens where she introduced her to the small staff who chided Isabella on her fickle appetite. Charlotte smiled then as though pleased by proxy with Isabella’s shy affection for her new home. From there they swept down the few halls, past the guestrooms and Sophia’s (unkept) quarters. Isabella attempted to whisk them past her own bedroom door, but Charlotte wondered after it, forcing the two to stop and have a peek in. Sally had dutifully pulled up the sheets and duvet, but Isabella’s tinctures and books-in-progress lay littered around the spread and side table. The two women stood in the doorframe looking in. Charlotte’s right foot kicked forward a centimeter or two, as though she intended to enter the room, then thought better of it. From there was the dining hall and parlor where they landed with some careful attention to proprietary distance on the low couches.

 

Falling into a companionable silence, the two glanced around the well-lit room before letting their gazes dart back when the other wasn’t looking. Isabella grasped for conversation: what were the two of them to speak of when the scheming was paused? When it was all over and the both of them still alive, would they again try to forget each other? Though she did not care for small talk, Isabella so enjoyed Charlotte’s voice, enough so to will words from it.

 

Eventually, she found a thread: Isabella asked after baby Kitty and found Charlotte surprisingly vocal in her adoration for the child. Kitty was just starting to challenge gravity on shaky knees. She would hold herself up on the corner of a chaise and look around, astounded by her new point of view. Meanwhile, the girls and ‘Nance’ (as Charlotte referred to the swashbuckling woman) cheered the babe on, willing her to take her first steps.

 

Isabella chose the right ‘in’ -  Kitty was a light into Charlotte’s world, one which she was comfortable sharing freely. She elected not to veer their talk toward Lucy (over whom the spectre of Lord Fallon hung). Isabella absently pulled at a loosened thread in the couch’s stitching and spotted how Charlotte’s eyes followed the movement. Where it might usually make her feel self-conscious, Isabella found Charlotte’s close attentions comforting. This was a quiet gulf they swam in, sat in the bright parlor, the waters settled for an hour or two and keeping them afloat on a gentle tide of conversation. Hounds howled at their doors once again, perhaps had never departed their world for the hellish legion from whence they came, and so too did they haunt each other, but for awhile there was peace. And there was tea.

 

When Charlotte left, Isabella decided to step out into the gardens with Sophia for a word. Checking in on Jacob’s progress, she listened as Sophia waxed poetic about what a polite boy he was, how very interested he was in a variety of subjects though he did not care for mathematics. He was so very bright, Sophia said, but also quiet. Unreasonably so, considering his talent. When it came time for oratory and rhetoric, he closed off whether out of shyness or some other anxiety. Sophia had so tried to learn more about the boy as was in her curious nature: how did he spend his days? Did he have friends his own age? What did he do with his father in his free time?

 

Sophia, who’d spent what amounted to mere hours on Greek Street, could not understand what Isabella only half-understood herself: Jacob was well-loved, certainly well-cared for, but was raised in the chaos of his family’s business, his innocence foiled from the start. In her own way, Isabella who’d grown up in complete opposite circumstances could relate to the boy’s withdrawn habits - so too was her innocence shattered before she could register the loss.

 

Isabella thought that more mornings with Sophia might further open Jacob up. Learning could be a kind of nurturing... could bring out the curiosities of life that make it worth living through each day; to sense the world beyond the one that so tortured you, the shape of it, its limitless possibilities, was to keep abreast of hope - to fantasize, yes, but within reason.

 

Mother and daughter passed the rest of the afternoon in quiet, shared company. Outside a wind picked up, gusting through the gardens and knocking against the windows. Sophia pecked at the harpsichord while Isabella feigned reading, her mind otherwise occupied with its fresh plot and the dangers therein.

 

Tomorrow she would go to the residence of Mrs. May, just where Charlotte told her it was, and find some way to force a confession or - at the very least - some angle into her world. Her brother’s evil had tendrils, snaking limbs that stretched into a darkness her eye could not perceive, but one which she must plumb in the name of her daughter, Charlotte, Abigail, and all the girls who’d fallen before her. She must herald in her selfish instincts, this once. There was too much for which to repent and she would not let her weakness win out again.

 

Even without their ringleader, men like Cumberland and Liddington had petulant appetites that could not be easily corralled. Though their exploits were not currently infringing upon the lives of Charlotte and her girls, specifically, they must be carrying on elsewhere or elsewise. And was that so much better? Faceless girls at their nonexistent mercy instead of Charlotte? She was indeed selfish, raised on poison and unable to part from the worst parts of her that knew her answer to be yes: it was worse. For she could not bear the memory of Harcourt’s jealousy inflicted in blues and purples on Charlotte’s back and thighs. The fear she’d felt, for herself and the other woman, when he came home victorious and vindictive after bidding for Abigail’s virginity.

 

Her morality could not rival Charlotte’s. Charlotte, who thought of the big picture, of the countless women who populated her life and who suffered the wrath of male cruelty. That night, as Isabella prepared herself for her first truly fitful sleep in months, she would remind herself again and again of Charlotte’s good streak: that heart that kept her racing onward toward the fantasy of a better world, a safer world, peace and freedom from those who would manipulate and abuse for sport. She prayed that tomorrow her better nature would outweigh the shadows and that she might be able to access the strength that only Charlotte wielded.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

As the girls sat round the table that night, tucking into rye bread and some hearty potato soup, Charlotte found her usual appetite to have squirrelled away. Lucy and Sukey were laughing over some dumb cull’s indiscretion that morning, something about “bad aim” which sent the girls into peals of giggles. Charlotte longed to take part in the frivolity, but her mind was still in St. James’ - turning over and over the morning’s events.

 

After the tentative house tour and polite tea, Charlotte had swept Jacob under her arm and sat beside him in the shadowy carriage. The boy was quiet still, but content in a way he hadn’t been since Margaret’s departure. With him he had a veritable stack of books he’d borrowed from Isabella’s library. They ranged from History to Literature to Divinity. Charlotte wasn’t so sure about the last category, she’d had quite a enough of that from Ms. Scanwell’s snore-inducing speeches at the breakfast table. Their covers were heavily adorned with gold thread and linings, bound in rich and supple leather, and Jacob couldn’t help running his fingers over their spines on the short journey home.

 

Charlotte had spent the rest of the afternoon in her room, pacing back and forth and fretting over what to do next. She felt her hands were tied by Isabella’s intrepid courage which seemed to come from nowhere. Where was this woman last year when she’d needed her? She’d conceded that Isabella would go to Mrs. May’s alone, but everything inside of her warred against the idea. It was not safe and Charlotte would not have Isabella, despite her complicated feelings, thrust into danger at her behest. She thought of Mrs. May’s beady eyes, echoed in the glass stares of her little china dolls. The seemingly unassuming veneer of the powder blue walls and her slow gate. Her age didn’t phase Charlotte who knew her to be no idiot, only a viper in disguise. After all, hadn’t Lydia implied that Mrs. May had been a kind of mentor, a friend of her cruel father’s who brought Quigley into the world that she would reign over with malevolence?

 

It made her queasy, allowing Isabella to visit that hell pit on her own. It would inevitably needle at her tomorrow like a sharp pin drawn over and over against thin skin. Was there no way for her to provide some aid without Isabella being aware? Charlotte imagined, for a moment, simply showing up anyway - striding into the drawing room where Isabella and Mrs. May might be sparring, where some girl with long smooth legs and a certain practiced hunger in her eyes might be complimenting Isabella’s countenance, the exquisite design of her gown or hair. Or worse: reaching out with a faux tentative hand to stroke at the soft cheek, the jeweled neck, or worse than worse - elsewhere and everywhere.

 

She shook herself. What was the real threat? That Mrs. May might harm Isabella, invoke her brother’s rages - that was the correct answer. But Charlotte couldn’t help but dwell on the silhouette of the girl, whoever she may be, a supposed pawn who would touch the lady, beseech her into one of those pokey bedrooms, undress her while the dolls watched.

 

It grated, yet it had no right to. Would it, after all, be so bad if Isabella carried on with the ruse and followed it through? If it meant that Mrs. May’s secrets would be divulged in a quick and orderly fashion? Perhaps, it was more expedient this way. And yet, again Charlotte could not bear the thought, even worse the image of it.

 

The girls cleared their few dishes and headed into the parlor for a nightcap leaving Charlotte to her musings, alone at the table. Nancy strode in with her flogger hanging limply from her belt. She looked tired, more drawn than usual, and Charlotte wondered at her ability to push down the pain over Ma’s disappearance. After Isabella walked away from her last year, after her mother had been “hanged”, it had been Nancy’s humor and ability to overcome that had moored her, kept her upright against the onslaught of betrayal and loss.

 

After Blayne retrieved Fallon, Nancy knew her house was compromised, that it would not be safe to keep on with business there. She’d been working under the radar in a number of friendly houses, but chose to sleep in one of Charlotte’s rooms. It made her feel safer, to have Nancy near at all times. After their conversation last year on the doorstep, where Charlotte revealed the depths of her heartbreak, Nancy and her had never been closer. The woman who’d been so secretive, an enigma to her and Lucy as babes, was now a friend to her, though not as she’d been to her mother. To be on the other side of this dynamic, properly grown and regarded as such by Pa and Nance, made Charlotte feel the slightest bit better about her new position.

 

“What worries you, girl?”

 

Charlotte looked up. Nancy was sat in the seat across from hers, running a fingertip round and round the rim of a glass half full of gin.

 

“The usual. Finances, the girls, Jacob, all that.”

 

The corner of Nancy’s mouth quirked: “And not your _ladyship_ per chance?”

 

Charlotte knew this was a conversation she could no longer put off. Since Isabella’s visit to Greek Street last week, Nancy had been needling, seeking an opportunity for the two of them to discuss the lady’s re-entry into their lives.

 

“She’s high and blind on her independence, Nance. She plans to confront a wicked crone named Mrs. May tomorrow and refuses to let me help.”

 

Nancy looked at her sharply.

 

“What do you know of Mrs. May?”

 

Taken aback, Charlotte backpedalled: “Oh, well, while I was with Quigley we stayed with her after the doors to Golden Square were shuttered.”

 

“And you thought now the best moment to bring it up?” Nancy stood up, taking the seat right next to Charlotte’s instead.

 

“Well, I didn’t exactly think it pressing. There was much more to worry about at the time… What do _you_ know of Mrs. May?”

 

Nancy grimaced. “I know her quite well in fact. Have since I was a girl. She often caters to more off-color delights, same as me, but her house is one I frequented in my younger years. She keeps the girls locked in less by money and keys, as Quigley did, but by blackmailing them into submission. And they’re asked to perform like monkeys in a cage.”

 

Charlotte sighed. “And Isabella is going to pose as a customer… It’s a nightmare, Nance. There’s no way she’ll get the information she needs and all she’ll do is put herself into danger!”

 

Nancy nodded. “You care about what happens to her.”

 

“I care about what happens to her brother, preferably a ready noose.”

 

“You’re lying, girl, and you know it. You worry about the lady and rightfully so. May is a deceptive cunt, a crusty witch. Your lady would be best to watch her back.”

 

“I’d rather watch it for her,” Charlotte said, raising a tired palm to her forehead.

 

“Look, I agree the threat is real. What does Lady Fitz propose to do, exactly?”

 

“She’s going under the guise of seeking a… companion. A dalliance, I guess.”

 

Nancy pressed her lips together. “I know the old bat well. Have done some business, however begrudgingly, with her in the past. I’ll stop by in your stead.”

 

“You’d do that for Isabella?”

 

“I’d do it for you. If it meant you’d stop with this frowning and fretting.”

 

Charlotte smiled thinly, touched by Nancy’s gruff care. Together they laid out her counter-ruse: she’d go to Mrs. May’s under the guise of a business proposition the next day and keep a watchful eye on Isabella as she made her gambit. And report back to Charlotte who would then get Isabella’s side of the story. That way, the lady would not lie to her. Could not deceive her even in the name of protecting her interests.

 

All she wanted was the truth from Isabella in any and every form. And this time she would have it.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Isabella woke that morning with a crick in her neck. At her boudoir, she and Maren went through the painstaking process of pinning on her largest, most extravagant wig and a gown of gold and pink thread. The skirts were bolstered by her most luxurious bum pad, creating a ring of thick fabric to keep others at bay.

 

After a stilted, appetite-less breakfast, Isabella fetched her carriage and willed the surprisingly short ride to Knightsbridge to go on just a little longer. Dreaded as this mission was, some part of her had been wondering after M’s identity for weeks. She now had the face in mind, the seemingly unassuming old lady who protected her brother’s pleasures just as Quigley had. Soon, there was the image of the house as well. As the carriage pulled down a quiet, green street lined with red-brick homes of neither squalor nor luxury.

 

Her driver paused. The footman opened the door, but before Isabella could touch her feet to the ground, he cleared his throat.

 

“My lady, are you sure you have business here?” He looked down and something in his expression made Isabella falter for a moment. He seemed to know something of the house that she did not (or, at least, did not know until yesterday). Chancing a glance over at the driver, he too refused to make eye contact with Isabella and not out of some overzealous sense of decorum.

 

“My brother has some unfinished business here, I’m afraid. Unsavory and unfortunate as you might expect and the duty has fallen on me to settle his debts while he’s away. Despite our, as you know, halted communications.”

 

The two men nodded, appeased for the moment. Isabella left them both on the curb and headed for the doorway. No staff stood at the entrance and thus she knocked twice.

 

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but it was not the appearance of a small person, a small woman in fact, wearing a white wig high enough to counterbalance her low stature a bit.

 

An impish grin appeared on the woman’s face. “Well I’ll be! We don’t see many ladies coming this way through the door. How can Mrs. May be of service to ya?”

 

Isabella was speechless a moment, then gathered her wits about her. Charlotte had said that Mrs. May’s house was not for the usual fare and, frankly, the woman’s size was charming instead of revolting. Perhaps that was why she was allowed to answer the door.

 

“Yes, I’m here to see your madam, Ms….” Isabella trailed off haltingly, clinging to a glimmer of manners.

 

“That’s Cherry Dorrington ma’am. Right this way then. I’ll fetch the missus now. I’m sure she’ll be able to help you find… what you’re looking for. Though I do so dearly hope to extol my own virtues for you if given the chance.” Cherry winked and Isabella found herself not threatened, but humored by her gall.

 

Cherry led her into a powder blue sitting room, the furniture gilded with silver painted handles and feet. It was sickening, like sitting inside a peppermint treat. The house was oddly quiet, though Isabella expected that business was slower in the mornings. The only sound was Cherry and her quick steps down the hall. Isabella tried very hard not to fidget. Her hands grasped nervously at each other, pressing the skin pink and then white from frustration.

 

Maybe five minutes later, Cherry returned to the parlor and behind her trailed an unexpected face. Isabella had been bracing herself for the lined, powdered witch and in her stead was Nancy Birch, a friend of Charlotte’s mother and a strange sight to see among the house’s fixings.

 

Isabella opened and closed her mouth a few times before waiting for Nancy to speak. What did this mean? It was clearly a signal from Charlotte who’d gone against her wishes to leave well enough alone. She’d known that Charlotte’s acquiescence had come at too shallow a cost yesterday and had half expected (and hoped) to see the woman marching up Mrs. May’s front yard after her. This, though, was a more ambiguous sign. Less a reckless act of care on Charlotte’s part, but more a calculated sidestep. What was the Birch woman’s role in all this and why was she summoned in favor of Mrs. May from the depths of this house?

 

“I don’t believe we’ve been _properly_ introduced Lady Fitzwilliam, but I’ve heard much about you. You’re one of the most talked about women in London. Stealing back your fortune from under your brother’s nose, bringing your bastard child out of the darkness and into your comfortable home? Quite a stir you’ve caused in the upper echelons of society… even we lowly folk, helpless as can be -” Nancy flourished her flogger “- can’t help but to titter over your escapades.”

 

Isabella swallowed hard. This was not the ambush she expected. There were equal parts humor and resentment in Nancy’s eyes. Isabella knew it had been her home she’d compromised in the pursuit of her absolute freedom. She’d taken away not only Charlotte’s revenge and justice, but those that Nancy rightfully deserved as well.

 

She started: “Ms. Birch, forgive me but I was expecting the madam of the house…”

 

Nancy smirked, eyes glinting some form of delight. “And she will be with us shortly. She’d hate for you to see her without her looking her best and it is quite early in the day for this house yet. But she has sent me ahead to show you some of her famous wares…”

 

Isabella kept from rolling her eyes, but only just. It was clear that Charlotte had orchestrated this scene, willed it into existence under the guise of protecting Isabella from herself. Her first instinct was to be insulted that Charlotte thought her some kind of invalid, unable to connive what she needed out of the most grotesque personalities imaginable. Was that not her only real skill? Had she not employed that method her entire life?

 

“I’ll have you know that I’m most choosy in my tastes Ms. Birch… I will not be easily impressed by the passing charms of your everyday strumpet.”

 

Across from her, Nancy resisted the urge to laugh. She knew exactly where Isabella’s true desires lay and they were with a young bawd sitting at a table across the city, twiddling her thumbs in wait for Nancy’s return.

 

“I’m well aware, Lady Fitz. Let us begin then. Cherry, please fetch the girls. You know which ones.” Cherry nodded and hurried off.

 

Now alone, the two women were silent a moment before Nancy started lowly: “Charlotte sends me in her stead as you must well know by now. Do not ask me just yet how I factor into this ruse, but I have a relationship, however caustic, with the old cow. She _will not_ give up your brother’s secrets without some fine tuning in the form of payment and camaraderie. You must match her humor, wart for wart. I’m here to help you in that endeavor.” _And to make sure you don’t tumble into any of the beds upstairs though Charlotte would never admit to that_ thought Nancy.

 

Isabella sighed, relieved. Just then a slow trickle of girls came into the room, announced by the swish of their many skirts. There were five or six of them, all tall (though none as tall as Isabella) and all brunette except for a single redhead. Their hair pinned up to suggest both youth and maturity at once and dressed in varying shades of light blue and gold. They held their chins aloft, feigning as much dignity as the parading allowed them.

 

“Let me introduce the girls as though they were my own, Lady Isabella.” Nancy gestured forward the first brunette who, Isabella was not so loathe to admit, was beautiful - though her posture seemed a bit too calculated, her eyes a little too knowing to be beguiling as such.

 

“This is Marie-Louise, formerly of Golden Square. She speaks French for your fancy and is well-educated in the Classics and Opera. The most illustrious girl here and only a match for the finest of visitors.”

 

Isabella looked closely at the girl. She’d been a captive at Golden Square… that intrigued the lady, but where would her allegiance lie? With Lydia, locked away as she was in Bedlam? What had brought her to Mrs. May’s? Nancy introduced the others all of whom had some supposedly winning quality that Isabella might invest in, but it was Marie-Louise who kept her attention.

 

Just as Nancy was wrapping up her speech, a croaky ‘ahem’ interrupted the scene. In the doorway stood the crone herself. Even with her wig in place, her shoulders curved noticeably down. The droop of her posture belied the icy interest in her eyes: this was not mere conversation, but a battle of sorts and one for which Isabella still felt woefully underprepared. She stood once again, reaching out a tentative hand to greet Mrs. May. The other woman grasped it weakly between both of her own and brought her face even lower to kiss it. Isabella’s skin crawled, horrified at the slight smear of Mrs. May’s lipstick on the back of her hand.

 

Nancy surreptitiously edged forward from her place behind the couch, motioning the girls to line up all orderly again. Each girl had a poised look of serenity on her face, but Isabella noted the slight tremble in their knees: all except for Marie-Louise - who looked unphased by Mrs. May’s arrival.

 

“What a pleasure to finally meet the Marchioness of Blayne. And an honor to have you visit my humble temple of delights. What do you make of my girls?”

 

“A fine array if I’ve ever seen one. I have heard much of you from my brother and expected no less.” Isabella lied, hoping it might spark something.

 

Mrs. May stared at her a moment too long, unblinking. To Isabella’s side, Nancy flicked her wrist indicating some kind of instinct to intervene.

 

“Well, well. I haven’t heard from the Marquess in quite some time. I think he found dear Lydia’s services of far more use than mine. But with her present circumstances in mind, I just might drop him a visit.”

 

“He’s in France, I’m afraid, and sorely missed.” Again, the unblinking stare.

 

“I find that hard to believe, Lady Fitzwilliam. From what I’ve heard, like everyone else in London, you’d quite like to never see him again.”

 

Isabella drew a sharp breath, rendered mute. Nancy stepped forward in a faux act of hesitance.

 

“Martha… if I may? The lady and her brother quarreled over more than just coinage. They both sought the favor of a harlot in Lydia’s keeping for a time. Imagine that!”

 

Taken aback at the revelation of her affair with Charlotte, so readily put out for the villain to grasp by a supposed ally, Isabella bit her tongue to keep from denying it.

 

“Yes, Ms. Wells… It was she and the idiot Charles who were responsible for Lydia’s caging. I would like to see the both of them muzzled.”

 

Nancy pressed her lips together, irritated but hiding it well to everyone except Isabella. “Charlotte is a reckless girl but certainly an appealing one as you well know. Drew both the Marquess and Marchioness here in with little more than a few charming words. The two fought over possession of her wit and beauty, but neither prevailed. Thus, Lady Isabella comes in search of a… companion, if you will.”

 

At that, Mrs. May drew back her claws, drawn in by the offer of business. “Very good then that you’ve come to the right place. You’ll find earthly and otherworldly pleasures here. I assume you met Cherry at the door. But I imagine your taste -” Mrs. May gestured a wrinkled arm out to Marie-Louise “- tends more toward the elegant. What do you think of young Ms. D’Aubigne? Her tastes are expensive and she is most flexible when it comes to more than just conversing in two tongues!”

 

Isabella attempted not to recoil, repelled by Mrs. May’s euphemistic manner. She was neither clever nor sly as Lydia was and Isabella struggled to understand how her brother would seek out this old crone first when Lydia offered much more in the way of practiced villainy. Mrs. May, or Martha as Nancy had called her, spoke to her as though she were some common man, laying on compliments that might cajole her out of her 10 guineas and into a bed with one of the girls.

 

Fumbling for her next move, Isabella looked again at Marie-Louise who now seemed less haughty and more interested in the lady’s hesitance. Had she noticed the strange ill-feeling between Mrs. May and herself or had Nancy given something of it away. The woman was looking intently at Isabella as though testing her resolve to finish the mission for which she’d come here and not leave empty handed.

 

“Mrs. May, much as I’d like to delight in Ms. D’Aubigne’s company, her prior presence at Golden Square gives me pause. My brother was a frequent visitor to Lydia’s house and I’d like to avoid another debacle like the one from last year. I imagine you’re more familiar with his tastes than I am, yes?”

 

This approach seemed to work better. If Isabella were able to contextualize her pursuit of Harcourt’s secrets within the framework of her brother’s desires (shared with her own supposed ones), then she might be able to bleed the woman of more information.

 

“Well, your brother is a distinguished man of exotic, lofty pleasures. That’s for certain. And I’m _sure_ it’s a quality you share with him. It was Lydia’s discretion he so admired among other qualities. And I taught her that myself when she was young. It was on my recommendation that the Marquess found his way to Lydia’s.”

 

“My brother has his persuasions, as do I. Though our tastes differ far more than you might imagine Mrs. May. I just want to be sure I’m not stumbling over his ashen coals, if you will.”

 

Marie-Louise huffed, evidently insulted by Isabella’s turn of phrase. She was reminded, for a moment, of Charlotte who’d also rebuffed - fearlessly - her petty remarks, made her reconsider how she used them to denigrate and lord over her, even if that wasn’t Isabella’s intention.

 

Isabella glanced at the girl briefly in apology before turning again to Mrs. May, holding her strange gaze.

 

“Yes, I have very well seen women of your persuasion, though not quite of your breeding. It is somewhat rare, I will say. I am more likely to welcome men seeking molly boys than the alternative. No matter, these days I am mostly catering to your brother’s friends. Lords Liddington, Cumberland, and others I’m sure you know.”

 

Isabella bit back her bile and nodded: “Yes, all friends. We’ve known each other for years and years, since my brother’s youth.” She was not lying. For decades now she’d been Harcourt's favorite toy, a dancing frivolity that he dangled around Liddington and Cumberland like a cat presents a dead mouse to its owner. And she’d dutifully flopped and simpered about, coquettishly flirting with them only to flit back to Harcourt at the first hint of his violence.

 

She knew well their insipid personalities which varied very little from one another’s. Theirs was a mob mentality, a tribal cult that they convinced themselves was one of honor, but instead was the vilest, wicked baseness one could imagine. That was what kept them all together after all these years: their entitlement, their money, their boredom spawning streaks of abuse and murder.

 

In the brief moment she’d fallen from the patter of conversation, Nancy and Mrs. May began discussing an upcoming party of sorts - a masquerade for All Hallow’s Eve - at which the forespoken men and their various guests would frolic among the scant gardens behind Mrs. May’s home.

 

The crone turned to Isabella: “You simply must come, my lady. Marie-Louise will be the embodiment of the season’s bounty and if you should so like her wares, she would be all yours for the evening - to the envy of all those present who would be in the know.”

 

Mrs. May raised her brows, as though trying to include Isabella in some inside joke of which she wanted no part. “We shall see…” Isabella trailed off, trying to sound less uncertain than she felt.

 

At that, Nancy nodded once with her chin pointed just so at Marie-Louise whose slender hand reached for Isabella’s in offerance. This was the moment she’d been least prepared for, though she knew she must follow through with the illusion to the very end. After all, Nancy had implied that this was the girl to choose with everything except words.

 

And so, Isabella returned the young woman’s grasp. Her skin was startlingly smooth, as though she soaked her hands in oil each night to prevent calluses. Upon their first true touch, Charlotte’s hands had been much the same and it struck Isabella that this was an asset for a harlot whose touch was one of her skills. A year later, Charlotte’s hands were a bit rougher, still warm and small compared to Isabella’s own (perfectly so), but toughened a bit by maintaining her household and, she thought privately, from a kind of disuse.

 

In a pristine French accent, Marie-Louise implored the lady to follow her up the stairs. All the while, they held each other’s grasp and Isabella, unaccustomed to the touch of anyone (even Charlotte) except for Sophia, battled against her instinct to withdraw.

 

Up and up they climbed, reaching the top floor landing. There were two rooms only up here.

 

“The light up here is best, ma dame. And we will be truly alone.”

 

It was true. Not a sound escaped the other room and they felt kilometers away from Mrs. May and her watchful eye up here. The light was indeed calming and from the window Isabella saw only clear, clear sky.

 

“And what do you make of being … alone. With a lady such as myself,” Isabella asked.

 

Marie-Louise considered the question a moment, raising a finger to her chin in thought. “I think, it is a task more bearable than my daily duties, ma dame.”

 

“Do you often entertain ladies, Ms. D’Aubigne?” Marie-Louise chuckled lowly. “No, but if you’re asking whether the thought perturbs me, then you have no idea the horrors I’ve seen.”

 

This intrigued Isabella, a glimmer of the real girl tortured beneath the charming veneer. Again, she was reminded of those first meetings with Charlotte. “You mean at Golden Square,” Isabella ventured. The girl bristled a moment before relaxing once again. “Oui. This is no paradise as Madame Magpie down there boasts, but Golden Square was a darker shade of hell beneath its gold veneer.”

 

Isabella nodded: “And yet, you’ve escaped somehow.”

 

“I ran away to Mrs. Wells' place on Greek Street this time last year, but she couldn’t afford to keep me after all. Nancy took me in for awhile at hers, but I was no fit for spankings and rude words in any language other than French. So, she got me a place in this infernal house among freaks and sycophants. But, I am alive, and no longer at Dame Death’s ready disposal.”

 

She was taken by the girl’s candidness. Here was, perhaps, another ally, another girl undone by the cruelties of men and their volleying women who would scorn the safety of young girls in the name of profit. Isabella shook herself again, knowing she’d done just the same once.

 

“I understand. I will confess to you, though I hardly know you, that I too was once vexed by Mrs. Quigley. And I am truthful when I say that I’m glad a girl as smart as yourself escaped her clutches alive.”

 

Marie-Louise smiled. “We are much the same in some ways, ma dame, despite our difference in station. Is this sameness what takes you? You like the similarity that so exists between women, the shared beauty?” Marie-Louise cooed: “Perhaps, you also like how we make the same sounds, look the same,  _feel_ the same?”

 

Isabella gulped. She couldn’t help but flicker back mindlessly to Charlotte’s initial advances in Golden Square. To her surprise, some faint echo of that feeling blushed into her cheeks. Marie-Louise was, after all, beautiful. Dark hair, full-lipped, fair skin blemishless. And she was forthright, honest to a fault, things that dearly reminded Isabella of her beloved.

 

She was frozen as Marie-Louise skimmed a hand down her forearm, the other going to her waist. Her face was quite close now, almost brushing against Isabella’s neck where she leaned in. Again, her mind whirled back to how Charlotte had held her that night on the chaise, leaning in just the same, the wetness of her eyes as she’d cupped Isabella’s cheek. The electricity that both ignited and dulled her senses, the heaviness of her limbs as they ardently ached to return the embrace.

 

This encounter was like an inferior reimagining. Marie-Louise seemed surprisingly kind and had much in common with Charlotte, but she was not the same, could not be. It was not just Charlotte’s looks or her feminine ways that swayed Isabella into her orbit, but her specific brand of strength, her contradictions of soft and hard, her rough voice, and their shared plot, however foiled by the evil that bested them.

 

Just as Marie-Louise brushed her lips over Isabella’s pulse point, Isabella pulled back.

 

“You have been honest with me and thus I must be honest with you, my dear,” Isabella started, “I am here under something of a false pretense and find myself caught between my inclinations. You are indeed beautiful, stunning, and very much worthy of somewhere far from here. You do not need to offer me your services, only your secrecy. Ms. Birch and I plot to use Mrs. May to our advantage, you understand?”

 

Marie-Louise nodded, suddenly wary. “And how will I play my role, ma dame? It is, after all, all I’m good for.”

 

Isabella realized the girl felt spurned, despite her attempts at reassurance. “Ms. D’Aubigne. I am a spinster, but you’ve guessed my persuasion true. In another world, I might very well desire what you offer. But my capacity for these things runs thin and I already employ another…” This was a lie. Isabella had never employed Charlotte and, at present, the girl wanted nothing much to do with her beyond the plan. But it was her best excuse and, strangely, her most honest.

 

Marie-Louise nodded. “Then I shall be your entry again and again to this house. Perhaps I will simply read you some verse, though in shared company we will likely need to play the part, you understand?”

 

Isabella nodded. That was indeed true. Acting, making believe, that she could handle. “Then we’ll be allies,” Isabella asked searchingly, parroting her same words to Charlotte last year.

 

Marie-Louise nodded firmly, grasping Isabella’s hand to place a much more welcome kiss against her skin. She did not respond: “Friends.” For that was not what they would be.

 

Behind the locked door, the two women sat in semi-silence a while longer until Marie-Louise deemed it convincing for them both to return to the parlor. Nancy, to Isabella’s surprise, was still there. Perhaps, Charlotte had insisted she see Isabella out the door. It made her feel infantile that Charlotte could not trust her to do the simplest of things, but a part of her was flattered by her apparent concern.

 

With naught but a quick farewell to Mrs. May and a promise to attend the Hallows Eve masquerade, Nancy (and Cherry) walked Isabella to the door. Just beyond the threshold, after the door was closed, Nancy murmured, “I expect I’ll be seeing you sooner than we think. Best run to Greek Street and report back to that girl who’s probably paced a dip in the floorboards by now.” Isabella looked searchingly at Nancy a moment longer and then nodded.

 

Her dutiful driver and footman were still parked where she’d instructed, the horses pawing anxiously at the dirt-packed road. She climbed tiredly into the carriage and, though tempted to go home and get some rest, instructed them to take her to Greek Street. The plan, however unsteady even to her own eye, was in motion. She must report back to Charlotte, for whom she was truly doing all of this, sooner rather than later.

 

* * * * * * *

 

It was taking too long. Much too long. All morning, Charlotte had been feeling unwell. Nauseous and unable to eat or sleep with nerves, displaced in her stasis. She hated the feeling of doing nothing: she was wont for action, for taking strides, however foolhardy. It did not sit well with her letting Nancy take care of it all, but it did soothe some of her worry. Any moment, Nance would walk back through that door and deliver the news, good or bad, and Charlotte would be thrown back into the plot again: an active member of their troop instead of a mere witness.

 

If the plan for Lydia’s downfall had been a five-headed beast, then this was a two-headed one, clumsy and misshapen by her persistent care for Isabella. She was angry at herself for being so distracted, so blinded by the prospect of the lady lying with another or, horrendously, being threatened by another old witch at Charlotte’s request.

 

She sat in the parlor with the door open, listening for even the slightest crunch of Nancy’s boots upon the gravel outside. Minutes ticked by before she heard anything and it was not just footsteps, but the slow pound of horse hooves. She rushed up and flung the door open in haste and there, instead of Nance, was Isabella. Charlotte took one deep breath and then another and something came over her like a fit. All that worry shook through her fingertips and she could not say a word. The lady looked at her hesitantly, as though worried what Charlotte might think of her appearance in Nancy’s stead.

 

Still silent, Charlotte simply stepped aside to let the lady in, fumbling the door closed behind her. This time, Isabella led the way in, but not to the parlor where the girls could still be heard in the kitchen trading barbs. She looked back at Charlotte once over her shoulder, imploring her to follow. Slowly they ascended the stairs, reversing their post-coital steps from so long ago. On the top floor was Charlotte’s room, as Isabella well-remembered, and just as the lady sat upon her bed, Charlotte closed the door behind them.

 

The feeling that had gripped her on the doorstep, the release of fear, the anger with Isabella for excluding her, the churning unease, the jealousy: all of it was knotted in Charlotte’s throat. Still, the two shared no words and yet an energy seemed to travel between them, something that might burst at any moment.

 

Charlotte could not deny the shock of seeing the lady upon her bed. It was not the same as Isabella’s room in the Blayne Estate, a room for which neither of them felt any affection. This was the room where they’d undressed one another, where they’d traded quiet and intimate words in candlelight. Where they’d burned and then smoldered and then burned again.

 

This room was not Charlotte’s childhood dwelling. After all, she’d truly grown up in Covent Garden in an attic room the size of a large cupboard. But this was now her home, the realest one she’d had in her adult life. And the effect of Isabella sitting in the transformed space,  _her_ shelter from the world, was incendiary. It pricked at Charlotte’s nerves and senses and made her feel far off-kilter.

 

Turning the lock, something she rarely did, Charlotte slowly paced toward Isabella. The two still said nothing and Isabella’s gaze was becoming more unsure by the second, as though afraid to incite Charlotte’s possible wrath.

 

Finally: “Is it done?”

 

Isabella looked at her in confusion. “No. It’s just begun… like we discussed.”

 

Charlotte trembled slightly. “That’s not what I meant.”

 

The lady’s lips parted and closed a couple times, still unsure.

 

Charlotte continued, haltingly: “What did she look like? The girl?”

 

Isabella’s brows furrowed in understanding. “She was tall. Dark hair. French.”

 

Charlotte exhaled raggedly. “And did you like that? Did she appeal to you so? Make you spend in both meanings of the word?” The lady was clearly taken aback by this. Charlotte had never dared speak like this in Isabella’s presence and, yet, the odd sensation she’d felt at her arrival persisted, clouding her mind with misplaced priorities.

 

“No. She did not. She never will.” Isabella was whispering now.

 

Charlotte reached a hand out to brush the back of Isabella’s forearm. The lady’s breath was audible now and her gaze turned briefly down from Charlotte’s to where they were touching. She looked back up, holding Charlotte’s gaze with her own, now gleaming one.

 

“And why not? I know you long like anyone else for the comfort that touch can provide… why not let this girl give that to you?” Charlotte forced the words out.

 

“Because she cannot. I meant what I said when we spoke that night. I am thrice damned: by my betrayal of you, by the specter of my brother’s violations, by all the mistakes I’ve made which I keep like heavy stones in my panniers. She cannot because the only one who can give that to me is _you_... though I never was deserving of that gift, then or now.”

 

What had lingered in their interactions over the last few weeks was exactly what Isabella was now putting words to: the continued devotion, the unyielding affection which remained despite their changed circumstances, how Charlotte could hardly stand to look at Isabella that first blue, blue night. What had drawn her back into this whirling dance where things were left half-articulated, misdirected, and shielded out of fear. The persistently intimate anglings of their bodies and words.

 

Yes, Charlotte knew that Isabella’s words were true and that she meant them dearly. Charlotte was the only one who could touch her and, yet, Isabella knew that she would never be deserving of that touch ever again. It was that contradiction, those two truths achingly in revolt of each other, that vexed her so. She despised their unkind certainties, for the lady did not deserve - after all - to be alone. Charlotte had meant it then and she meant it now.

 

It was some kind of spell that came over her. Ever since the woman entreated entrance once again to her home, her bedroom, her splintered heart. This new spat of choreography where they pushed and pulled at each other under the guise of a scheme, some speck of justice, it was not the complete story of what they were, what they meant to each other.

 

Across from her, Isabella let first one then another tear fall. They slipped prettily from her long lashes and down the pale cheeks. It broke Charlotte’s heart, some fissure opening up that Charlotte could never hope to sew together again.

 

The hand that held to Isabella’s forearm pulled her in, without question or reason. This was not a move on a chessboard, nor a dance to be performed for the cruel masses. It was something that Charlotte could not help, how her body swayed forward, her other hand reaching up for the soft cheek that she remembered too well.

 

Isabella’s tears fell more readily now, her eyes shining as they held Charlotte’s own. “You will never know the loss I felt, made all the worse knowing it was me who let you go, who let you fall. I thought I might never see you again, certainly didn’t deserve to. When you came to the Pleasure Gardens, it was like seeing a ghost of my own making. You followed me to that wretched house and it was a kind of punishment to be so close and yet so far away from you. It’s selfish to say all this, but I feel I can’t keep it to myself any longer for fear of it escaping from me unwillingly.”

 

Charlotte said nothing for a time, just moved steadily forward, her own skirts pooling atop Isabella’s, the hand not on Isabella’s cheek going to her waist and then around her back, up her shoulder to the perfect neck, and then down again: restless and hungry as it recounted the landscape it only recalled. They were closer now than they’d been in a year. Charlotte had brought her face up to Isabella’s running the tip of her nose along the fluttering pulse point below her jaw.

 

The lady’s entire body was stuttering, her breaths more like continued gasps. Charlotte brought the wandering hand up to base of Isabella’s head and played gently with the softly curling hair there. She hummed, pleased with the feeling, the energy which had been nervous in its intensity just minutes ago now transmuted into undeniable desire.

 

Did anyone smell quite so good as this? Men, she must admit, never did and even the expensive perfumes of Golden Square could not match Isabella’s natural scent and chosen fragrance. Bewitched, Charlotte followed it to the source, at last placing a kiss against the milk-white neck. The lady made a noise at last. Something like a smothered whimper combined with a gasp and the sound, however small, flowed like a spigot in Charlotte’s abdomen, gathering force in her center where the rapture of this moment made itself readily known. At the sound, Charlotte lost the thread of her control, pulling the smooth skin into her mouth and sucking.

 

“Charlotte…” Isabella could hardly breathe.

 

She looked up and met the lady’s hooded gaze.

 

“Charlotte, I -” Isabella started again, but Charlotte did not let her finish the sentence.

 

The kiss, despite all the roiling build up, was still a shock to the system when it arrived. Charlotte had forgotten the softness of Isabella’s lips, how plush they were against her own. Isabella’s tears had stained them with an ocean’s tint and Charlotte eagerly welcomed that salt into her mouth. Where, the first time, she’d been exceedingly gentle, slow so as not to spook the other woman, now she pressed forward ardently. Both her hands came up to grasp the lady’s cheeks and Isabella responded immediately, as though she’d prepared for this moment for months, despite expecting it to never come.

 

Press after press of lips and teeth. Isabella’s own hands wrapped around Charlotte’s shoulders, caressing the skin there then flitting down to her waist before running up again into her wild hair, which she’d worn down. Charlotte could hardly stand Isabella’s touch. Each stroke of her hand sent a spark down her spine and she thought she might soon climb out of her own dress and lay herself down before the lady if she did not cease her toying with the smooth skin on her shoulders.

 

Over and over they kissed, wetly and relentlessly, their breathing compromised by the circuity of their desire. As they came together again, their chests now touching just so, Isabella dared to let her tongue run over the seam of Charlotte’s upper lip. A question met by a groaned invitation. She opened her mouth and let the lady in like she’d let her into her home and back into her life.

 

It seemed that nothing would pull them apart. Any noise that sustained downstairs was drowned out by the deafening silence of the moment. Charlotte closed her teeth around Isabella’s lower lip and bit down gently. Isabella whimpered, throatily and unabashedly, and the noise caught flame like a bonfire in Charlotte’s chest. She brought her restless hands to Isabella’s skirts. Slowly, she lifted them, crumpling them in her palms. Underneath were Isabella’s legs, pale and long as can be. Charlotte had never met a woman so tall as Isabella: when the woman had lain splayed across this bed that night, they’d seemed to go on forever. Charlotte had dragged her mouth from the inside of her ankle all the way up to the delta that flowed between her thighs. There, the scent and the taste had been richest and unforgettable, try as Charlotte might.

 

Isabella took Charlotte’s hand, which now had lifted her skirts high enough to reveal her knees and thighs. Instead of pulling it away as Charlotte might’ve expected, she brought it briefly up to her own lips, taking first Charlotte’s pointer finger and then both the first and second fingers into her mouth.

 

It was lewd, but it took Charlotte’s breath away. The heat of Isabella’s tongue, the smoothness of it as it wrapped around her. It was over nearly as quick as it began when Isabella dragged her fingers out and down her lips and chin before returning them to their rightful place under her own skirts. Charlotte tiptoed them up the lady’s thigh, tickling enough to bring a shuddering smile to Isabella’s lips.

 

Finally, inevitably, they reached Isabella’s center, water meeting water. She was wet, so much so that the sensation made Charlotte dizzy with the implications: that Isabella so dearly and desperately wanted this, that she too could not resist it, that she had not forgotten that night, that their shared touches haunted her too.

 

Isabella gasped out her name. She’d only seen the lady behave this way once, unhinged from her propriety and frigid manners in this very bed. Charlotte adored Isabella like this, wild-eyed, staring back at her with hazy vision, an unassuming Aphrodite who did not, could not, realize the power she had over Charlotte simply by standing beside her in the same room. Even the most irritating of gestures and habits, Charlotte could not deny her obsession with them. All this affection, this sensuality unfurled through her fingers which stroked lightly against Isabella’s clit.

 

Two sharp knocks came at the door. It was a marvel that Charlotte even heard them over the thundering of blood in her ears. The two women pulled back reluctantly from each other, Charlotte’s hand coming to rest upon her knee. She groaned lowly, angling her forehead against Isabella’s. She nodded at her, letting her gather her breath for a moment before pulling the heavy skirts back down regretfully. She stared for a moment at her wet fingers before wiping them on her own dress.

 

“Yes?” She called out, half-irritated, half-raspy.

 

“Have you absconded with the lady, Charlotte? Her horses have been pawing at the ground outside for nearly an hour now. I’ve been back a half hour myself and there is much for us three to discuss. That is, if you can tear yourself away.” There was a teasing edge to Nancy’s voice and Charlotte, still a bit giddy from touching Isabella, wanted to laugh or snark back, but she remembered the woman still sitting upon the bed behind her and held her tongue.

 

She looked back over her shoulder. Isabella was still a bit flushed, but her trembling had subsided and though torn by her baser impulses, she seemed resolute in her expression that they speak of more important, less beguiling things.

 

“We’ll be right down then. Put the kettle on!” Charlotte listened for Nancy’s footsteps growing fainter down the stairs and turned to Isabella.

 

For the first time, there was an awkward silence between them before Charlotte could no longer hold back her laughter. Isabella was surprised a moment and then she too could not stem the wave of giggles that gripped them both. It was as though some of that tension, coiling and uncoiling energy shared between them, had released into the cool day’s air out the window and the two of them could be natural for a moment together. Just a moment.

 

Then, Charlotte reached out her hand. “Shall we?”

 

Isabella smiled. “I suppose we must.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHEW. I figured I would let the girls have some fun since we're at about 40k words now. PLEASE do let me know what you think of this chapter as I feel a bit anxious about it... sorry for the long wait babes x


	8. Specters and Saints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The All Hallow's Eve masquerade.

Downstairs, away from Charlotte’s bedroom and their heavy rapport, a kind of awkwardness settled over them both. At first, Isabella thought it might just be the fog of arousal, which she initially struggled to ward off as they convened around the kitchen table. There was a moment upstairs where the two of them had been thoroughly unmasked and revealed themselves to the other in every way except with words. But it now felt more like a trick of the light, something to be filed away and revisited when all this trickery and sleight of hand was done. 

 

Nancy had indeed put the kettle on and three steaming cups of plain tea and milk sat waiting for them at the table. She’d taken one look at Isabella and Charlotte and shook her head ruefully, waiting for one of them to start the conversation. Where Charlotte had been silent since Isabella’s arrival, she was now overly talkative, gripped by some drive to distraction. Isabella felt disappointed that the other woman was clearly throwing herself back into the plot to avoid dwelling on what had just transpired between them.  

 

Instead, there was a beat by beat recreation of the day’s events: from Nancy arriving early to Mrs. May’s, already trying to wheedle what information she could out of the old woman - to the invitation to the Masquerade that coming week. 

 

“You’ll have to go, you know. Follow through. She’s intrigued by you and that’s enough to get the stone rolling.” Nancy turned her attention from Charlotte to Isabella. 

 

Isabella’s meekness, in the wake of her encounter with Charlotte, had returned and for a moment she was taken aback by her role at the center of this plot. 

 

“Yes, I’m afraid so. When I spoke with Ms. D’Aubigne, she and I agreed to favorable terms. In exchange for her participation, we must get her out of Mrs. May’s house and set her up with something of a stipend. This, for once, is something I can do.”

 

“So she’ll still be like a paid mistress,” Charlotte muttered. 

 

Isabella turned to her, weary of her petulance considering everything they’d discussed (and not discussed) since her arrival this afternoon. Nancy shook her head and also said nothing. And for a moment, they were all silent. 

 

“She is willing to put much on the line to enact our plan. And I am willing to pay through the nose for anything and anyone that might help put my brother in a permanent bind.” 

 

“I agree, the girl will be useful. I regretfully placed her in that house in the first place. I should like to see her anywhere else except for maybe Golden Square,” Nancy said. Charlotte, appeased by this, nodded once before taking a long sip of her tea. 

 

“If this party is a masquerade, then I see no reason why I couldn’t attend in disguise.” Nancy and Isabella both sighed, knowing this was coming. 

 

“You will not. Mrs. May is likely to strangle you on first sight. And, it should be noted, that some of the men you tried to hang last year will be in attendance. Ghouls a’plenty will be circling and it’s not safe for you to come anywhere near their frivolities.” 

 

“Do you think I cannot handle myself? That I cannot navigate these waters just as I’ve done for years now? I will not be pushed aside again while the two of you carry on your schemes together. If we are to take the Spartans down, it will be my hand holding the knife.” Charlotte had worked herself up, not yelling but nearly so. The noise in the parlor had dimmed at her outburst and Isabella thought she saw a flicker of embarrassment on Charlotte’s face. 

 

“It was enough for you this time that I was there, but that solution will not hold for you now?” Nancy asked.

 

“No.” It was a terse reply and, Isabella thought, a childish one. 

 

“I will not have you putting yourself in danger,” she murmured. 

 

“You will not have me doing anything,” Charlotte replied, agitated. Isabella recalled her own words from the Pleasure Gardens:  _ I haven’t the right to ask you anything at all anymore _ . It was still true, but if there were one request she could make, couldn’t it be that Charlotte stay alive and not put herself at needless risk? Isabella could bear much: blows to her body, her spirit, the lonely punishments of her selfish decisions, but she could not bear the thought of Charlotte in true peril. 

 

Nancy noticed the tension between them and interjected: “Look, you’re well grown now. I cannot contain you as your mother attempted to, but I would like it noted that I advise against this.” 

 

“I’m not compromising on this one, Nance. Let me handle Lidington and his cronies while you two play Mrs. May. It’s a masquerade, after all. I’ll wear an extensive disguise.” 

 

Nancy shook her head. “If you think that’ll get the old bitch off your trail then you’ve got another thing coming. But this will be a large affair. Mrs. May has a shockingly deep clientele list and knowing their tastes… it should be chaotic enough that you might be able to slip through,” Nancy continued, “That said, the lady may not be in a place to make demands of you, but I  _ am _ . You are not my child but I reared you, carried you as a babe, and will not see you cold with pennies on your eyes. Charlotte, you must promise to keep your distance from Mrs. May while we make our play. Stick to the outskirts of the party for once in your life…” 

 

Isabella sighed. “Very well, put yourself in the line of fire. Clearly, you have no concern for our supposedly shared goals and are once again seeking a baser form of vengeance. If it is worth so much to you, then let Mrs. May maim you for it.” Frustrated with Nancy’s acquiescence to Charlotte’s demands, Isabella stood from the table and walked out of the room. 

 

She’d almost made it to the front door when she felt, for the second time that day, Charlotte’s grip around her forearm. This one was firmer, though not clenching as her brother’s once did. 

 

“Isabella…” Charlotte’s voice was coarse and Isabella bristled at her misplaced irritation. 

 

She swallowed. “Charlotte, let me go.” 

 

A breath. Then, Charlotte released her firm grip, letting her hand lightly fall to Isabella’s instead.

 

“Isabella, please. Look at me.” She turned and at her obedience, Charlotte pressed forward until Isabella’s back gently hit the door. 

 

Charlotte’s other hand went to Isabella’s waist. “I need you to trust me once again. I want to be of use to you and Nance, not leashed here like a dog likely to bite at the first sign of trouble.”

 

Isabella breathed lightly through her nose, trying to conjure some response beyond the way her body sparked to Charlotte’s touch. For a moment, it was like the past hour with Nancy in the kitchen had evaporated and the two were back in Charlotte’s room, on her bed, with Charlotte’s hand running up her skirts. 

 

It struck her that Charlotte might be using that very reaction to her advantage. The woman’s thumb was tracing slow circles on the brocading of her bodice, over her stays, and Isabella thought she could feel the touch even through all the layers of cloth and boning. It was indeed an advantage: she must admit that she was weak for this - had been unable to stop thinking about it for the last year - but if Charlotte thought she would bow easily to her desires like some… common man, then she would be mistaken.

 

Isabella pulled away from the other woman to the best of her ability, considering it was her own back that was to the door. “Charlotte, you do not need to offer this or anything else to appease me. I may not be happy with your decision now. But I’m sure I will come around to the idea in time, though I loathe it.” 

 

Charlotte looked at her curiously before her eyes widened slightly in understanding. Isabella expected her to withdraw her touch, which had stilled following her words. A moment. Maybe two. And then Charlotte surprised her, surging forward for a deep kiss, possessed by some momentum that Isabella could not hope (and did not want) to counteract. 

 

She let herself be pushed further into the wood of the door, her hands flying to Charlotte’s hair, running her fingers through the curling strands. Perhaps she was truly helpless to this. When her brother had come into her room that ill-fated day, he’d played at a sick form of romance. Sometimes, in the dead of night, Isabella thought she could still feel the pressure of what he pretended were kisses. They were bruises, weaponized by their wicked intents. 

 

As Isabella had grown, survived being with child and Harcourt’s departure (and subsequent return), she’d been briefly subjected to the courtship into which Sophia would soon find herself thrust. Harcourt always curbed the possibilities of well-heeled young men who might approach Isabella at balls. Once, there had been a young man from outside Harcourt’s group, a friend of Lady Marston’s who did not hide his disgust with Cumberland and Harcourt’s antics. He was interested in Isabella, asked her questions about her studies, something no one - man or woman - had ever done before. 

 

She’d never fancied dancing much, but the man had grasped her hand confidently, leading her through the complicated steps that were en vogue at the time. He was far more taken with her than she with him, but his attention had kept Harcourt at bay for the night and for that she was grateful. 

 

After a drink and a final dance, he’d offered his arm for a walk through the gardens and though Harcourt’s eyes cut glass into her skin from across the ballroom, she’d accepted, stepping out into the cool night with only the warmth of his jacket keeping her from shivering. They spoke a while longer next to a statue some ways along the garden trail before he made his move. Isabella, used to freezing under her brother’s so-called affections, turned to ice under his tentative touch. 

 

Sensing her fear, he looked closely at her, gazing into her eyes for a moment, and letting his hand slip lightly over her cheek. It provoked no reaction other than relief. Relief that she would not be cut to pieces below this statue of Heracles. And it was that reassurance that she was not in danger that found her letting him lean in and press a kiss to her lips. 

 

His lips were dry, but warm. For a few long seconds, she allowed the touch before tilting her chin down and feigning a blush. The gentleman seemed gratified by her reaction and, rather than forcing anything further, led her back to the ballroom where Harcourt’s bruising touch brought her into his orbit once more. She later learned that Harcourt had barred the young man from any of his parties, ostracizing him from a certain echelon of London’s social scene. Isabella never saw him again. His kiss, which had conjured nothing other than relief, had not remained with her past that night. 

 

Not like this, not like the breathless rush which slammed into every one of Isabella’s senses until she could no longer conceive of anything beyond the electricity of Charlotte’s skin against hers, her lips pressing again and again into her own. Isabella’s rebuke seemed to ignite a fire in the younger woman, a thirst to prove some point was in every one of her licks and bites. When both were out of breath, Charlotte did not relent. She panted into Isabella’s neck, little wet bursts of hot air that brought a flush to her skin. 

 

“Do you think that’s what I’m doing? Stringing you along like a cull?” Her voice broke over the last word and she took Isabella’s earlobe gently between her teeth, pulling. 

 

Isabella groaned, silenced by the force of her desire. She was aching everywhere, but particularly between her thighs where their earlier “discussion” upstairs had primed her for whatever fresh combination of heaven and hell this was. She couldn’t respond, her grasp of words evaporating into the slim air between them. 

 

“For months, I cursed you, cursed ever meeting you. When you walked away, I told myself I’d never think of you again. Yet, here I am. Manipulating you? It’s you who manipulates me,” Charlotte continued, returning to Isabella’s neck to plant long kisses. “I can’t seem to help this, whatever  _ this  _ is.” 

 

Isabella brought both hands to the sides of Charlotte’s neck, stroking the messy hair back from her face and shoulders. She looked down at the woman whose eyes were now a stormy dark blue and ringed red with some emotion she couldn’t place. Isabella’s entire body was thrumming, but she gathered the last of her strength: “Perhaps, then, we should stop. I do not want to torture you. I never have.” 

 

Charlotte’s brow furrowed. “But you want this as well…” 

 

“Yes. I want it more than I likely should, but you do not deserve any further pain on my part. If that means putting a stop to this before it starts, then I must.” 

 

Charlotte shook her head. “What makes you think you can always be making these decisions for the both of us? So what if I want this despite all that? Isn’t it my decision to make, this time, whether or not you walk away?”

 

Isabella gently pushed the other woman further back, smoothing down her dress and wrangling in her nerves. “Charlotte, what  _ exactly _ do you think this is?” 

 

Some of the verve Charlotte had moments ago seemed to recede. Here was the question made plain: the two could push and pull each other as much as they wanted, but to define this game would make it dangerous in its own right. 

 

Charlotte took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I know that I’ve never carried on like this with anyone. The image of you leaving me last year, to do what you did? It’s like a thorn in my side that I cannot pull out. But I do not hate you. I cannot.” 

 

Tears came to Isabella’s eyes. She nodded once and reached a hand out to stroke Charlotte’s cheek. The woman shuddered slightly, leaning into the touch and pressing a kiss to Isabella’s palm: nearly a perfect mirror of their encounter in the hall that first night, but this time it was more of an answer than a question posed by the gesture. 

 

“Okay,” Isabella said, “but I still think this should stop… for now. There’s too much at risk for us to -” Charlotte smirked and brought Isabella’s hand down her neck before letting the lady’s fingers brush her pale chest, exposed above her gown. 

 

Isabella looked down, stunned for a moment. “Charlotte, I ask for my sanity that you stop.” 

 

Charlotte smiled. “Mmm… I thought I said you couldn’t make demands of me anymore.” 

 

It was a joke and Isabella smiled before side stepping out of Charlotte’s space. “That may be true, but my point stands. This is a distraction from our plan and, should we both somehow survive this gambit, perhaps we can… discuss it then?” 

 

“Compelling conversation, as you well know Lady Fitz, is one of my myriad skills.” The laughter was still in Charlotte’s eyes. 

 

Isabella shook her head and gestured toward the door. “I must be going or Sophia will wonder whether I’ve been kidnapped.”

 

Charlotte nodded. “I will see you at the masquerade then.” 

 

“Yes, but it won’t be you at all, will it?” 

 

Charlotte smiled. “No, but any version of me would be most pleased to see any version of you, my lady.” 

 

Isabella could not help the blush in her cheeks as she turned the door’s handle, denying herself the impulse to kiss Charlotte one last time. 

 

Charlotte stood in the doorframe, watching fondly as Isabella got into the carriage and rode back to St James’s where Sophia would be waiting gloomily to have her supper at last.

 

* * *

 

It had been an emotionally volatile day for Charlotte who found the best medicine in the world to be a glass of rye and her Pa’s company. Over the din of tavern harlots seeking their daily pay, Charlotte and Will played cards, betting spare change that meant nothing as it was shared between them. Lucy had been regularly seeing the Duke and Duchess from the Pleasure Gardens, but tonight she was back in the city, sat on Nancy’s lap like she was no older than ten, not the most sought-after courtesan in London proper. 

 

“I think we all deserve a night off every now and then,” Lucy said, grabbing her drink and slugging back its contents in a most unladylike fashion. Nancy laughed, grabbing the glass from her and putting it back down on the table. 

 

“More like a night off your rocker. Go easy little one or you’ll be stumbling in the streets yet.” 

 

Charlotte was content, just like this: seated among familiar and unfamiliar faces alike and taking a moment to breathe. The four of them passed the hours trading fond memories and funny stories of Ma and each one stoked an ember of warmth in her chest. It made her feel better, strangely, to think about what mayhem Ma might be up to in America. Would she find a new archvillain, some counterweight to Lydia Quigley? Just as her Pa’d said, Mags would find her way by hook or crook back to them. In the meantime, they must be patient and take what relief they could from her imagined exploits in Virginia. 

 

Pa and Luce continued their banter as Nancy plopped another overpoured drink in front of Charlotte. Lowering her voice, she asked: “What will you wear to the masquerade? You must be strategic in your fancy dress. Best not to draw too much attention to yourself.” 

 

Charlotte truthfully had nothing in mind that would conceal her identity well enough to keep Mrs. May out of her sight. The party was in three days’ time and she had much to prepare. Nance would be there as well, of course, but Charlotte knew she’d need another incisive eye on her side. 

 

The next morning, she rambled down to Covent Garden to see Prince Rasselas. Following the events of last year: Fallon’s repeated attempts on Amelia Scanwell’s life and the rape of Abigail at the so-called Tribute to Vesta, Rasselas had vowed never again to involve himself in the affairs of Golden Square. A grifter still, if certainly a kind one, he was a difficult man to pin down. His business was inconsistent and saw him bouncing from house to molly house offering his services. 

 

Charlotte found him in a rundown shack, smoking from a small wooden pipe with a few other molly boys. It was one of them that came to the door, seemingly surprised to see a female face entreating entrance. 

 

“I’m looking for your prince,” Charlotte said. 

 

The boy grinned: “I’d like to think we’re all princes here… but I assume it’s Rass you’re after,” he turned over his shoulder and called out, “Rass! You’ll never believe it but a young, beautiful woman is here to seek your company!” 

 

There was a chorus of laughter from the parlor. Charlotte followed the young man (more like a boy based on his cherubic appearance) into the room and found Prince Rasselas dressed in nothing more than a chemise that looked to belong to an old maid and a dirty set of stays. Over his shoulders was a shawl, the qualities of which reminded Charlotte of the fabrics in Emily Lacey and Harriet’s new house. 

 

Suddenly alert, despite the cloying fog of hashish smoke in the air, Rasselas jumped to attention. 

 

“What news could you bring me, Charlotte Wells, other than sorrow? Does Dame Death walk among the living once again?” 

 

“No, no. It’s nothing like that. Don’t fret, the bitch stays in her kennel still, hopefully for good.  I’ve come to ask a favor of my own.” Charlotte reassured. 

 

“Oh, splendid news, but how else could I possibly help the inimitable Charlotte Wells?” 

 

“I’m in need of a disguise. And no one in London knows more about the art of hiding than yourself, Prince.” 

 

Rasselas smiled and gestured round to his housemates. “Very well! Tell us everything.”

 

Charlotte explained the circumstances of her mission, blurring a few of the facts for everyone’s ears except Rasselas’. At this imaginary masquerade, there would be a spurned wife of a man with whom she had carried on an affair. She must avoid her at all costs or else risk public humiliation and a verbal flogging the likes of which the beau monde had never seen.

 

Leave it to a group of molly boys to advise unusual vestments. There was hardly a lick of furniture or food in the house, but from their scratched wardrobes came garments galore of varying shapes and colors. They brandished garish gown after gown at Charlotte who simply shook her head and watched the chaos unfold before her. Their ideas grew more and more outrageous as the afternoon ticked on and Charlotte started to grow weary of the amusement. 

 

Rasselas, noting this, took her hand and led her from the parlor and into what appeared to be his hovel of a bedroom. There she explained the true stakes of her mission, what was at risk if she was readily recognized. He nodded gravely and stared out the window a moment in thought. 

 

“Perhaps, grand gowns are not the solution this once? You’re known for a certain flair among the courtiers, yes? The unexpected will keep you safest.” Rasselas sifted through the mass of silks and gowns littered all over the floor. He searched for a few minutes before coming up victorious with a deep purple jacket in his hands. 

 

Charlotte scoffed: “You’d have me dress as a dandy?” 

 

Rasselas flourished his hand again at the jacket. “It’s perfect! No one would expect it and, of course, you wouldn’t be in full men’s regalia. You’d wear a wig and hat of your own, perhaps with a veil and an elaborately lavish mask.”

 

Resigned to the whims of a bored molly boy, Charlotte agreed to try on the jacket and trousers which must’ve belonged to a man not much taller than herself considering they were a near perfect fit. Rasselas drew pins from a tiny cushion on his side table to bring the sleeves and legs into order before whirling around and fetching a semi-opaque veil made of billowing black lace and matching black gloves. 

 

When it was all put together, Charlotte found the overall illusion to be remarkable. The entire line of her body was different, dressed like this, and she hardly recognized herself in the mirror Rasselas had placed in front of her. She seemed, to her own eye, taller somehow. The jacket’s tails were quite long and brushed the floor as she moved side to side. 

 

“Rasselas, let’s rethink the trousers. I’m no man and, let’s be honest, can’t even play at that notion, but I do have some skirts that might match the jacket just fine. Still unexpected, but not ridiculously so.” 

 

Rasselas considered her a moment in the mirror and then nodded in agreeance. “You’ll need a fantastic mask.”

 

Charlotte smiled. “I have just the one.” 

 

She bade farewell to Rasselas and the other boys and headed home with her new fixings tucked under her arm. All Hallow’s Eve was just two days away and she still needed to determine her course of action. Nancy and Isabella would be oscillating around Mrs. May attempting to find some cracks in her facade behind which might lie Blayne’s secrets.

 

In her room the next night she tried on several different variations of her disguise before settling on deep purple skirts with the purple jacket thrown over her most elaborate, gold-jeweled stomacher and sturdiest stays. The veil would pin nicely onto her hair and then curl, serpentine, about her shoulders before flowing down her back. There was something of the forbidden garden to her visage, an edenic poisoned air. Where others might go for the simply ghoulish, Charlotte hoped to invoke some fear of original sin, the most enticing haunt of mankind which toils still in its sin-encrusted treachery. 

 

There was a moment where Charlotte imagined what Isabella might have to say about her ensemble: would she like it? Would it take her by surprise to see Charlotte dressed as such? When they’d first met, Charlotte had worn only pale pastels and golds, tones familiar to the aristocracy, and that - were she not staying at Golden Square - Charlotte could not afford. It was all in some effort to meet the lady head-on. It was only once she’d felt a level of comfort and trust around Isabella that she let her true colors shine through in more ways than one. 

 

She shook her head: it was a frivolous line of thought. She and the lady would be working separately tomorrow night - Charlotte canvassing the party like a soldier incognito in enemy territory and Isabella leading the front with bombast and charm. Yesterday’s indulgences aside, Charlotte still wasn’t sure whether she quite trusted Isabella with the plan. If things seemed to go south, would she flee again to preserve her integrity and money? She wanted so badly to depend on the lady, but that full-throttled need for the lady’s approval and help she’d felt last year was not wise and no longer prudent. Her position was less precarious, trapped as she’d been then in a wasp’s nest of her own making. 

 

The next day, Charlotte found it difficult to rise from bed. The weather had worsened progressively over the course of the week and heavy rain beat the window panes for hours on end. She worried the ball might be postponed if this kept up, but she resolved herself anyway to her daily routine. Lucy would be out of the house that night so Fanny would have to take charge of business along with Pa in her and Nance’s stead. 

 

She puttered about her daily chores, aimless in gait and thought. There were deposits to be made, a leak in the seal of one of the upstairs windows. One of her new girls - an italian emigre, Angelina - had a bad toothache and walked around moaning pitifully the whole day through. A very few customers for a gloomy day meant less coinage in her pockets and fewer chickens on the table. 

 

But those were concerns for another day, a normal day where she could rub the skin on her hands nervously raw from the precariousness of their station and then send herself to bed for an unrestful slumber. Tonight there were more pressing concerns and they weighed on her heavier and heavier as the hours went on. Afternoon turned to slate gray evening and as the girls one by one finished their suppers and made their way into the parlor or upstairs for a moment of respite, Charlotte put off her preparations. 

 

There was a time when she would jump at the opportunity for fancy dress, eager to cavort and flaunt a kind of beauty that even ladies of the highest aristocratic standing could never muster. However much she’d insisted on her own attendance, the surmounting danger of the plot gave her pause. Would she have the wherewithal to keep away from Isabella tonight? It had set something in her off, the idea of Isabella behind closed doors with that French girl playing at bedmates, and that had just been a murky image in her head then. How would she react when presented with the ruse so plainly? 

 

As always, there was very little time to dwell on the question. Night came fast, quickening in the shadowy shapes of men passing the front window to entreat entrance at their door. Nance arrived in her usual form except for a dark, simple mask the molded over the bridge of her nose and eyes. 

 

“I see you’ve made quite an effort tonight, Nance.” She shook her head at Charlotte. 

 

“It’s not me who’ll be hiding. This - ” Nancy gestured at Charlotte’s costume “ - I have to admit is quite convincing. You’re a dead ringer for Lilith tonight, Charlotte, not at all your usual self.”  

 

And Charlotte felt those words to be true. There was the queerest sense of unease that burned underneath her stays. Any number of things could go wrong tonight and yet some of that unease was anticipation. They were, perhaps, one step closer to incriminating the Head Spartan, a man more despicable than any Charlotte had ever known. 

 

Their carriage arrived and departed, hurtling Charlotte and Nancy toward Mrs. May’s house. Charlotte had stayed just a few nights here and could not say that she was excited to come back. All up and down the street, carriages were unloading masked nobility and harlots alike. Considering her age and Charlotte’s personal distaste for the old hag, she was shocked to see so many arriving for the masquerade. 

 

At the door, they were led in by Cherry and another girl that Charlotte did not recognize. Cherry, who admittedly barely knew Charlotte, didn’t blink twice at her and that made Charlotte feel a bit reassured that her disguise would hold true. The house itself was dark, lined with lit candles down the hallways, the doors to its many powder blue rooms sealed shut. Black swathes of velvet cloth and lace frayed to resemble cobwebs hung from the walls and furniture. Some hung so low that Nancy couldn’t help swatting the material away as they walked, muttering about garish tastes. 

 

At the back door, the dimness finally opened up into a brightly lit veranda and fairly large tent stationed on the green. Already there were men and women cavorting in the shadows of the garden, but the frivolities had not yet reached their destined fever pitch. Charlotte allowed herself a more incisive sweep of the grounds and did not find Isabella as of yet. The French girl who Charlotte now knew to be Marie-Louise (they were vaguely aware of each other in recent years, though they never shared the same clientele) looking bored beside Mrs. May herself and Lidington at the long table in the tent. On the table were several, carved gourds and fruits a’plenty. Lidington was making some speech that those around him feigned to enjoy. 

 

The sight of him made Charlotte’s blood boil. Her fists clenched and it was all she could do to restrain herself from striding right up to him and kneeing him harshly in his crotch. Or, perhaps, slapping him soundly across the face in full sight of his friends and Mrs. May. Nancy, sensing her anger, gripped her hand and leaned into whisper, “You’ll not be yourself tonight so do not carry that girl’s rightful grudges. Make a scene and we will leave here worse off than we arrived.” Charlotte nodded. It was keen advice and the only sane option: for her to keep her distance and observe from the fringes of the party. She could play the harlot once again, the usual games, just another beautiful anonymous face to entice the gentry. 

 

She and Nancy separated then with Nancy seeking Mrs. May’s ear. Charlotte took slow steps around the lamplit borders of the party, fetching champagne from the nearest footman and then leaning against one of the stone statues in a pose that she hoped was both casual and protective: she did not truly want to be approached on this evening. Not yet, at least. 

 

The band played one funeral dirge after another in jest before picking up the pace with some variation on an upbeat waltz. Men and women began to dance under the tent’s golden glow, not drunk enough yet to lose their steps. Charlotte enjoyed watching the uniformity of their movements for awhile before something far more dazzling from the corner of her eye caught her attention. 

 

Cherry was gesturing jauntily to Mrs. May from the backdoor, accompanied by a woman of great height trailing behind her. Charlotte took a deep breath and let herself stare directly at Isabella, just as she was not supposed to do. The Lady was dressed in an emerald gown of most lustrous silk. Atop her head, her dark hair was piled with bits of gold ribbon weaved into its depths. Her lips were a faint ruby and even from this distance Charlotte could make out the gold jewels glittering along her collarbone. 

 

It was, perhaps, the most stunning she had ever looked. While under her brother’s thumb, her manner of dress had stayed the typical course of pastels and heavy brocading. This combination was more than a touch flamboyant: a surprising choice for Isabella who formerly preferred to blend in with the wallpaper in spite of her commanding beauty and height. Her audacity suited her, Charlotte thought, letting her eyes linger a moment or two longer as Isabella wound her way toward the center table to sit between Nancy and Mrs. May. A number of men, Lidington not among their number gratefully, stiffened at her arrival. It seemed that Mrs. May’s self-exalted discretion had its limits. 

 

Marie-Louise broke from her affected boredom, rising like a swan with her back straight and her hand outstretched to greet the Lady. Approaching slowly, Marie-Louise pulled Isabella’s hand from her lap and pressed a light kiss to the back, saying something that Charlotte could not surmise from this distance. 

 

Despite her best efforts, a flush of jealousy arose like one of the night’s spectres, a ghost of her unyielding fascination. But she and Isabella had agreed to put this other business to rest. So, Charlotte dragged her eye away from the spectacle and toward a far corner of the party where a group of men appeared to be play-sparring. Taking a last draw on her drink, she set the glass down and walked slowly over the group. A young man with a thin moustache and a look of the East to him seemed to be at the centre of their games. An older gentleman with a portly belly was reciting a bit of verse that Charlotte could not identify through his stumbling, drunken elocution. All the while, he brandished a silver pistol out to the young man and Charlotte thought his suggestions lewd and unsubtle in their reference to the male instrument. The younger man smiled thinly, winking at the older gentleman before turning his attention to the man’s competitor, tall and slight to the point but without being gangly. He was much younger than his opponent, but his cheeks were a touch too gaunt, indicating some stress from life’s toils. Where the older man was obnoxious but jesting in his manner, this man seemed overly invested, his eyes kept on the young man who refused to meet his gaze.

 

“What are we fighting about boys? One of these fine young women sparking a riot?” Charlotte drew their attention all at once, but where she expected a smile or some leering pleasure at her appearance, all three men seemed taken aback, as though caught by the lawman instead of a beautiful and obvious courtesan. 

 

The young man at the center of their tussle stepped forward, greeting Charlotte with smarmy smile. He seemed relieved at her appearance, the only one of the three who smiled upon her approach. He reached a hand out to her jacket sleeve.

 

“Is this one of my creations? I would assume so, but I am new to town and have not seen your memorable face before, Miss…” He trailed off. His voice was even younger than his appearance and a bit high and breathy for a man.  If it were not for his close attention to her costume, she might assume him an opera singer. 

 

Charlotte very nearly introduced herself as usual before remembering the ruse. “Tonight, you can call me Lilith, first wife of Adam and Queen of the Shadow Realm.” The man looked at her through cautious eyes before laughing heartily, pulling her hand to his moustached mouth to kiss. “I think you’ll find, Lilith, that I am no Adam. I’m something of an Eve myself. Or perhaps the angel Gabriel.” He winked before turning to his as yet silent companions. 

 

“Gentlemen, shall we indulge this mystery lady in a different manner of game? Your tastes may not be to her liking, but hers are to mine.” He extended his hand again. “My name is Fredo Harvey, Lady Lilith, and these are my two compatriots Sir William Forley and Lord James Croft.”

 

Charlotte nodded at both before turning her attention back to Fredo. “What did you have in mind?” 

 

“My game is less sticks and stones and swords and shields and more a competition for the keenest eye. As I’m new to London from York, I find myself befuddled and enchanted by the goings on of your ruthless city. Chaos abounds and all of it too much for the single eye to capture. Here’s what I propose: by night’s end, these courtesans and temptresses alike will pair off with their respective benefactors. I want to guess who will be coming and going with whom. A matching match if you will. The one with the most matches will win a garment of my making free of charge.” 

 

Charlotte looked at Fredo curiously, thinking it less a game and more an excuse for him to investigate the party’s patrons more closely than would be comfortably polite. Another ruse. The heftier man seemed put out by this turn of events and eyed Charlotte wearily before saying he had other faces to see across the way. Croft was silent still, but did not waver from his long staring at Fredo, nodding once to indicate his participation in the “game”. 

 

Looking altogether too pleased with himself, Fredo took Charlotte and Mr. Croft each with one arm and led them to a rounded stone bench beneath a statue of Hermes. Charlotte thought this vantage point the best for snooping on the entire party at once, shadowy where the rest of the gardens were brightly lit. Once again at rest, her eyes sought out Isabella through the thickening chaos forming under the large canvas tent. 

 

Charlotte spotted her mask, the practiced smile, the tittering laughter that shielded her from threatening company. It was the smile she reserved for her brother, the simpering grin that would deflect his suspicions that she, firstly, had thoughts of her own and, secondly, hated him most ardently. To Isabella’s direct right was Mrs. May and her left, Charlotte noted uncomfortably, was Lidington. The two carried on a mimicry of polite conversation, but Charlotte could see Isabella’s sneering disgust barely concealed beneath her rosy veneer. 

 

Nance was nowhere to be seen, disappeared into the ether of the quickening night. Mrs. May’s girls (and curiously, a few young men) were loitering around on the fringes of the tent, looking bored. That is, except for Marie-Louise who was watching Isabella, Charlotte thought, very closely from where she stood with the others. When Lidington stood up to make his advance on a very fair blonde with a blue silk mask, Marie-Louise seemed to sense her window of opportunity. 

 

Fredo leaned over, whispering in Charlotte’s ear: “What does this one mean to do? All the men have left Old Lady May’s table…” He paused a moment and then said, his eyes moving over Isabella, “Or perhaps, she has softer travails in mind this evening.” Charlotte bristled at the implication.

 

“Do you realize what you’re implying?” Charlotte bit out from the corner of her mouth. 

 

“Of course I do. You can’t think I’m here to find myself a young thing like  _ that _ . I am the nubile beauty to be caught. Though, only on my own terms” Lord Croft, on Charlotte’s other side, shifted uncomfortably. It was one thing for Charlotte to privately acknowledge the obviousness of Fredo’s persuasion or to discuss such matters with Rasselass behind closed doors, but another thing to discuss it so openly, so  _ brazenly _ like this. How she and Isabella carried on or - for that matter - how Fredo and Croft carried on in the safety of absolute privacy could find the men hanged and the women forced into marriage - or worse, Bedlam. 

 

And here Marie-Louise was, throwing all caution aside to drag a hand across Isabella’s bare shoulder in full view of Mrs. May and her assorted party. Mrs. May tittered at Isabella’s side, likely extolling the virtues of Marie-Louise’s beauty to all who could hear. But Marie-Louise paid none of the men any attention. She leaned over quite close and whispered something in Isabella’s ear which drew another small smile. This one, as Charlotte had been on the receiving end of it before, she knew to be genuine. She stiffened as she witnessed the interaction and her reaction did not go unnoticed by Fredo who looked again at her curiously. 

 

“You know the Lady?” He asked. Charlotte nodded.

 

“Do you know her well?” He continued. 

 

“Sometimes I think I do. Sometimes not.” It was more cryptic an answer than she intended. 

 

Fredo, somehow seeming to understand, nodded and drew his gaze back over to Mr. Croft. Shaking herself, Charlotte took a long slug of her overly sweet wine, thinking herself a little too honest with someone she barely knew. 

 

“Back to the game then? The blonde over there with the blue mask will leave with the fop, Lidington, and she will regret it before night’s end. He’s not worth his deep pockets. Both of the redheads, there, are speaking with Justice Knox and his secretariat underling. Each will depart with their respective lawman. And find them likely hypocrites in the light of day.” 

 

Mr. Croft, if possible, looked even more intently at Charlotte then Fredo and Charlotte was surprised at her unassuming ability to pull his attention away from the true object of his desire. But his gaze was not lecherous; instead she found resolve in his eyes, the kind of confidence that came from knowing - all at once - what must be done and when. But, he said nothing. At least for the moment. 

 

Fredo smiled to break up the tension, turning his two comrades to the drunken frivolities happening outside the otherwise genteel tent. Men and women alike were partially disrobing, the men openly groping their female partners with something like humor in their eyes. It reminded Charlotte, ever so briefly, of the Pleasure Gardens - where the aristocrats felt so safe as to sink below their stations in public. 

 

In no time at all, men would be pulling women (and even vice-versa) into the shadows to have their own chance at a “stabbing” game. Charlotte noticed Lidington getting up with his chosen doxy, the two of them swaying to some imbecilic music that only they could hear. The string orchestra had ceased for the time-being, taking a much needed break at the table farthest from Mrs. May’s. 

 

As Lidington and the girl grew closer, Charlotte turned toward the statue of Hermes, pretending to admire its cold curves as she kept a keen ear out for this slurring conversation. 

 

“I cannot believe how brazen she’s become, that whore hanging off her arm for all the world to see -  _ as though it’s normal _ ,” Lidington spat at the girl who couldn’t seem less interested until he said that. 

 

“Lady Isabella? Marie-Louise has said naught but a word about her since she visited Mrs. May last week. All the same, it’s most unusual for a lady to seek our services, positively abhorrent I must agree!” The girl nodded, seemingly sobered by this new round of gossip. 

 

“Look how she let’s that girl pull her back to the house! If the Marquess heard of this… there’d finally be a price for her unpleasant disobedience as of late.” 

 

Charlotte was shaking, rage filling every orifice and threatening to exorcise itself through her fists. Fredo sensed her anger, drifting a delicate hand along her shoulder in some benevolent act of comfort. Croft took a step or two back, himself afraid of Charlotte’s palpable ire. Over her shoulder, she saw the sweep of Isabella’s skirts disappearing into the house, Marie-Louise surely ahead of her by a few steps. In the midst of her anger was a pang. Though she knew Lidington’s words to be false, she did not like the lady gone from her sight. 

 

She briefly weighed her options. It was very well stupid, just as Nance said, to make a fool of herself out in the open. Mrs. May could not know she was here, but she also  _ could not _ abide hearing a plain threat against Isabella without reacting in some way. 

 

Still, there was the secret of Lidington’s membership to the Spartans and his role in Kitty’s death. Yes, Fallon had confessed to that murder before taking his own life, but Charlotte just might be able to use the last of its lingering threat to cow Lidington into submission. He was just smart enough to be afraid of her and just stupid enough to not realize that crime was long settled in the eyes of the law.

 

He was a cursed follower who without Harcourt and Fallon to lead him with a strong hand had no cunning or wit of his own. How grateful he must be for his lineage as otherwise he might be nothing more than the local buffoon, making a common fool of himself for all the city to see. Charlotte thought it still an accurate description of the weak kneed man before her. 

 

She turned and gathered her height, straightening her back and gesturing for Fredo (and Croft who would not let Fredo out of his sight) to follow her. Fredo’s concern lingered in the corners of his eyes, but his taste for scandal outstripped his worry for his newfound friend. 

 

“You simply wish, sir, that your girl would drag you in lust back to the house instead of gossiping with you like a pecking hen.” 

 

Lidington wheeled around, mouth open in offense. Whatever he was going to say in rebuttal caught in his throat as he scanned up and down Charlotte’s outfit, landing finally on her eyes through the ornate mask. It was a disguise not designed to be seen up close by any who knew her and certainly Charlotte had no talent for altering her voice, which was as distinctive as her name. 

 

“You think yourself a shadow, Miss Wells? I can see your  _ whore _ mouth clear as day below that mask. If I were to tell Mrs. May you were here, what then?” 

 

“Then I might tell keen, young Justice Knox there about a girl I used to know: a young maiden named Kitty. You might remember her?”

 

Lidington swallowed. “I haven’t the slightest clue what this harlot is raving on about. Perhaps she’s finally off her rocker or drinking away the sorrow of no longer being in my friend’s good graces.” 

 

“I suppose you mean the Marquess? Funny you speak so much of him; I don’t believe he thinks of you at all. Must be hard being in that sort of callous company. Is that why you spread lies to fill his ears?” 

 

“It’s no lie that Lady Isabella is playing a game of flatts at this very moment with not one iota of guilt for the shame she brings to Harcourt’s name,” Lidington seethed, “and you must find yourself glowing green indeed to not be the current cunny of her choice.” 

 

Ignoring the comment, Charlotte replied: “Yes, it’s  _ Isabella _ who sullies the Fitzwilliam name… and not your devious friend.” 

 

Lidington stepped forward, as though threatening to grab Charlotte by the throat, but Croft - silent and quick as always - blocked his way. 

 

“I’ll have you know, Lord Lidington, that I heard something quite interesting while fencing yesterday. Something about your finances, hmm? I heard you were making illegal land purchases in the colonies outside the jurisprudence of the Crown’s law. I’m  _ sure _ it’s not true, but if I were to tell the Lord Chief Justice then, well, he might just have to take a look into it.” Croft’s voice rang like a bell, stilling Lidington at once. 

 

Taking a step back, the other man spit at Croft’s toes, grabbed the arm of his girl and stalked back to Mrs. May’s table where a transaction was made. He must have paid plenty a penny as he was soon seen taking the girl to his carriage and away from the house. 

 

Not five minutes later, Marie-Louise and Isabella emerged, arriving at the tent a minute or two apart. Greedy eyes took in their reappearance, making quick assumptions about what had taken place inside. Charlotte knew it to be nothing more than a farce - that perhaps Isabella and Marie-Louise had bartered terms for Marie-Louise’s allowance or played whist or something like that. But even the gossiping eyes of the party could not assuage her persistent envy. She did not wish to tup the lady and call it a day - here at a party full of fiends. (Well, she certainly  _ did  _ want to, but not here and not now). It was this new relationship the two women had, something close to a friendship but not quite. 

 

Charlotte could not figure out whether it meant anything beyond the plot. The two had not looked at each other since sitting back at the table. Nancy was brandishing her flogger widely, feigning at drunkenness to cover up her close-cutting eyes. Something she said made Mrs. May cackle and, for a moment, Isabella’s displeasure was clear on her face. Charlotte smiled. 

 

Marie-Louise looked amused as well, but quickly smothered her smirk lest her proprietress catch her in the act of ridiculing her. She once again pulled Isabella’s hand into her lap. The lady paid her little notice so, as though prompted by her non-reaction, Marie-Louise leaned slowly into her space, pressing a long, soft kiss against her cheek.

 

Charlotte looked away. She could only torture herself for so long. Depressed by the simplest of gestures, the lowest of jealousies, Charlotte wondered at her decision to come at all. What had she accomplished tonight? Perhaps, what Croft had revealed about Lidington and this new friendship with Fredo might very well go somewhere. She had to hope, because otherwise it felt borderline useless to stand here at the edge of this garden while Isabella, her partner and her  _ friend _ , was fine without her. Beyond that, pleased with Marie-Louise’s attention if the blush in her cheek was anything to go by. Gathering her skirts about her, Charlotte drew Nancy’s eye as she passed, nodding at her once before calling a carriage and heading home. 

 

* * *

 

No matter where she looked, Isabella could not find Charlotte and she hardly thought the girl’s disappearance a matter of her unexpected costume. She’d spotted her earlier, back turned slightly away from the tent, accompanied by two men - the younger of whom had a cherubic look to him. Inappropriately miffed by Charlotte’s chosen company, she averted her eyes and chose to ignore the woman’s presence. Even still, she worried after her. And when she could not find her some time later, Isabella pulled Nancy aside to get some “much needed air.” 

 

“She’s gone, your ladyship. I’ve been ‘round to meet her new friends and they said she left not fifteen minutes ago in a somber mood. I reckon you’ll have something to do with it, but according to those two, she got into a fight with Lidington.” 

 

Isabella frowned. That was exactly what she'd worried about. Charlotte was charming, to be sure, and even had her moments of conniving brilliance - but she relied too heavily on her personality, the sheer might of her presence. To be invisible, to act  _ through _ that invisibility, the underestimation of your peers, that was Isabella’s forte.

 

“Will she never learn caution?” Isabella sighed. 

 

Nancy laughed and shook her head. “With looks and a wit like that? Never.” 

 

The two smiled in silence a moment before Nancy drew Isabella back into the sickly glow of the tent’s lamps.

“The witching hour approaches and so too shrinks the window you have to speak with her ghastliness over there. Pull her attention to your brother. I was with her earlier this afternoon and I’m almost positive she knows something of his crimes that even Quigley does not.”

 

Nancy continued, “She spoke of a girl, a favorite of hers, long gone now to who knows where - she wouldn’t say. But this girl brought Mrs. May her new breath of life, this very house, for a price she still hungers to one day match. Your brother footed the bill for the Ghoul’s entire enterprise. All on the back or blood of one girl.” 

 

Isabella swallowed, a bolt of discomfort shooting down her spine. She thought of the girl in the ledger, her name - Catherine - blazoned across the first page; a cursed Eve figure who predated even her own disgrace. Harcourt had claimed to be chasing the high of her rape all these years - it was his excuse for how he acted, his cruelty born of some twisted unrequited love. But this girl, this fifteen year old girl who was no doubt ruined even before she, what role did she have to play? Who was she and how did she come to be in Mrs. May’s sad menagerie and then end up a name in Harcourt’s book with an M accompanying it?

 

The ledger, she hadn’t discussed with Nancy who - despite her unquestionable loyalty - could not know about her own violation. Only Charlotte did. And at that moment, Isabella wished desperately to speak with her, to share her suspicions and fears: that Harcourt had murdered the girl as practice for her own downfall, that the only thing that had kept her alive past 14 was a mockery of love, and that her very existence was indirectly responsible for the deaths of all the girls to come.

 

She was slowly coming to trust Nancy who was so different to herself (and Charlotte) as to be a perfect friend, mediator, and collaborator. But only Charlotte, who had moved in the world that so tortured her, who had come close when no other had dared, could ease her anguish over this Catherine, this ghost of a girl who shimmered like a spectre beyond the realm of Isabella’s imagination. 

 

Already exhausted, tired of the charade with Marie-Louise though the girl was kind as can be expected, Isabella resolved herself to one more attempt at conversation with Mrs. May. The party was beginning to thin out with man of the male patrons having taken the girls into the many rooms upstairs for their paid reward. Every few minutes or so, another room would glow with the suggestion of a few lit candles, the curtains pulled against the crystal clear night. 

 

Whatever rain had threatened the party seemed to have cleared and the moon struck a long shadow against every surface it met. Like black ink poured with precision over the lawn, statues found themselves mimicked by the darkness, doubling in the drunken eye so that the entire garden seemed populated by some other force, some foreign and foreboding presence. 

 

Even the lamps in the tent were growing dimmer, their oil running low and their tenders - the house’s staff - too busy cleaning up after the increasingly brash crowd. Nancy led her by the elbow back to the center table where only Mrs. May, Marie-Louise, a very drunken man with a face as red as his jacket, and Cherry sat. The man seemed quite amused by a parlor trick that Cherry was performing, seemingly for the entire table, but Marie-Louise and Mrs. May looked otherwise preoccupied. 

 

The two spoke in low tones, Mrs. May leaning into her best girl and Marie-Louise handling the closeness with a stiff back, hands perfectly poised over her crossed legs. As Nancy and Isabella approached, Marie-Louise turned and gestured to the seat next to hers. Isabella perched herself as closely to the girl as polite, reminding herself of the ruse: the two of them had been spotted going into the house earlier. They’d sat awhile and spoke of Marie-Louise’s wants for her life, again in the highest room of the house, and Isabella had been able to breathe but for her worrying over Charlotte some four stories below. 

 

Marie-Louise no longer had any taste for glamor. That had been driven out of her by the brutality of Golden Square, the gilded chains of Mrs. Quigley’s enslavement. She wanted to get away from London - but further than that, she wanted to return to her home country, to the town where she came from, south of Paris. Her parents would certainly not take her back, but if she could go somewhere else in the region, live a comfortable and anonymous life, she might find some peace. 

 

Isabella envied her for her idealism. She well-understood the impulse to run away from the pain, but unlike the young woman, she had no where she could truly go without someone knowing her name or station, or without Harcourt following whether in bodily or ghostly form. Rather than escape, her own dreams, the ones she only let in the creaking door of her mind at night in her bed, were rather simple. A daughter appeased and at peace with her lineage, settled into a marriage that does not torture her and which takes her far away from Harcourt: a mistake, perhaps, on her part to never have chosen a husband despite her distaste for marriage. 

 

And then there was Charlotte. How she fit into Isabella’s nightly visions changed depending on mood, but she was always there, irreversibly centrestage. In fact, the stuff that made Charlotte was the very material that formed the foundation of freedom in Isabella’s mind. Even still, she sensed that Charlotte would not agree that she was so very free, all things considered. Her business faced constant threats from competing houses and a capricious law. 

 

Even still, it was the essence of her, the spirit that moved her. Her care for those of lower means, but also her lack of judgment when it came to Isabella. The men and women alike of the peerage who had spat at Charlotte, spread vicious gossip about the Notorious C.W. just as they demanded her time, her company. And Isabella, really, had been much the same, still was. But Charlotte cared deeply anyway. 

 

As Marie-Louise leaned into her once again, snaking an arm through the slight gap between her dress and her elbow, Isabella wished she were Charlotte. That she was not here but home or anywhere, talking with someone who did not see her as a means to an ends, a cursed creature, or a toy to be underestimated. The plain nakedness of herself in Charlotte’s eyes and embrace, literal and less-so, she wanted forever to live in that state. London or countryside or beyond foreign seas, it did not matter. 

 

But she would help Marie-Louise, however she could, and return her to her homeland when all this was through. And she would finish the night’s charade of a masquerade and test her limits with Mrs. May. Plot upon plot upon plot and all she wanted was her warm bed, to say goodnight to her daughter who trusted her despite her lies, and to perhaps think of Charlotte a moment or two before succumbing to slumber. 

 

But here she was, amidst a conversation about Prince Henry of all people, who was rumored to have returned to London after his grand tour. It was the kind of information that Harcourt would squirrel away, keep abreast like he supposedly kept abreast of their familial affairs, but honestly the Crown and its workings bored Isabella to tears. She was no social climber. Though she’d once valued her station like a dragon protecting a treasure horde, she did not employ it for favor from those even above herself and her brother. She’d been half-content to float along as she was, taking the parties, dresses, the splendor the estate, as the material whims that kept her warm through the long winter of her life with Harcourt. 

 

This was, though, an opportunity of sorts. “My brother would be most pleased to hear the Prince is coming to reside in the city. He was familiar with the boy when he was just a child. I believe he gave him his first sword as a gift upon his birth.” Isabella could not even feign to warmly speak of Harcourt, but she hoped the speech did not sound rehearsed.

 

Marie-Louise simply looked tired, the drunk man (a barrister, apparently) was ignoring the conversation entirely and chuckling at Cherry who was winking exaggeratedly at him every minute or so. Not a moment later, the two got up, Cherry skipping ahead of the man towards the house but not before throwing a salute at Nancy who could not hold back a laugh at the little woman. 

 

Indeed, it was only Mrs. May who’d paid any attention to what Isabella said and rather than respond at once, she peered at her for long seconds. The thick face powder which hardly concealed the potch marks and deep wrinkles was thickening further under the unflattering light. Mrs. May, for a moment, seemed a real ghoul, a fragment of a hellish legion bent on violence. But she soon smiled, revealing false teeth, and a different sort of light came into her eyes. 

 

“Well, you must give your brother word and a greeting on my behalf. He will surely want to pay Prince Henry a visit once he returns and I should like to be treated to the same pleasure. Just as your brother has known the Prince since his childhood, so too have I known your brother a very long time as well. Not a child, no, but a young man with ambition. I should like to see him rise to the station he so deserves.” 

 

Biting back bile, Isabella replied: “I have the same ambitions for him and for myself by extension. I should mean to write him very soon and would gladly pass along a message from such an old friend.” 

 

Mrs. May grinned and Isabella saw their tactic working at last. Like Mrs. Quigley, Mrs. May courted the rich and powerful. But unlike her apprentice, she had neither the cunning nor the paranoia necessary to protect herself. Tonight, she’d had a few too many drinks and seemed poised at last to spill some of Harcourt’s secrets. Or, at the very least, the one that counted most. 

 

She’d been the personal mistress to Lydia’s father, that much she knew from Charlotte, and with that information in mind, she realized her affection for Harcourt ran deeper than her pockets. Also by Charlotte’s account, Quigley’s father had been a successful businessman and minor member of the gentry, a cruel man who’d formed his daughter into the perfection of a certain kind of feminine evil. This was who they were playing with, a monstrous woman of avaricious sins. Beyond a bawd, she was a leech, and she would suck the blood from Isabella if it meant getting close once again to her brother. Isabella was counting on it. 

 

“Yes, yes,” Mrs. May murmured, “Will you tell him I saw his good old girl recently? Though she’s certainly no girl, no plum, and of no use to me anymore. Tell him Cathy has fallen on hard times and will need sewing shut again. I’m willing, certainly, to ensure that if he’d be willing to introduce some of the Prince’s courtiers to my delightful house.” By this point she was half-slurring, but Isabella took in every word. Shocked, she said nothing for a time and beside her Nancy had stiffened in concern. 

 

The girl was alive. And, as Mrs. May said, no girl anymore. A year older than Isabella, Catherine would soon be closing out her third decade of life. And she was alive. The only one - to Isabella’s knowledge - aside from herself and the poor wretch Abigail who’d survived Harcourt’s most violent impulses. 

 

Sensing something off about the lady, Marie-Louise ran a light hand down her forearm. “Ma dame? I fear I exhausted you earlier and now you have overexerted your nearly boundless charisma.” Still floored by the revelation, a thousand questions circling in her mind, Isabella merely nodded. She bid quiet farewells to Nancy and Mrs. May, promising the latter that she would mention her name in a letter she would never send to Harcourt. Nancy nodded at her, the message in her eyes saying  _ we’ll speak of this soon _ . 

 

Marie-Louise brought her back to the front cul-de-sac where her footmen and the carriage was waiting. Marie-Louise leaned in: “If you were as daring as these rumors we’ve instigated, you’d bring me back to your house for the night.” Her breath was hot on Isabella’s neck and on it was the smell of sweet wine. Perhaps, the younger woman was drunker than Isabella previously realized because the offer sounded genuine and there was no one around to see their closeness. 

 

“Soon, I will get you a home of your own. Mine will not interest you tonight, dear. But you have been a priceless companion and friend tonight. And for that, I thank you. I will surely be back to this cursed abode and you will be the only face I want to see.” Marie-Louise sighed and nodded, stepping back from the carriage steps. 

 

Isabella settled herself on the plush seat and drew the curtains back. On the short ride back to St. James’s, she very nearly fell asleep, stunned by the night’s revelations and the balancing act in which she played the center role. 

 

* * *

 

When they arrived, her butler - Andrew - was already at the front door, leading Isabella into the quiet house. Even Sophia, a late owl after her own heart, would be asleep by now. She intended to hurry through her nightly routine and find her bed as soon as possible, but Andrew motioned for a word. 

 

“My lady, Miss Charlotte Wells waits for you in the parlor. You described her, I believe, as a most valued guest the last time she was here and so I let her in some hours ago.” Isabella stuttered her thanks and passed the curving staircase that led to her bedroom and instead found herself pacing slowly toward the parlor. 

 

Something must be wrong, a fresh calamity befallen them. Why would Charlotte come here so late if not to deliver bad news? Wouldn’t she very well rather be in her home with her girls, relaxing in the way only those who lived as they did could? Isabella let herself into the parlor where only a single lamp burned in the corner, expecting to be greeted by an urgent Charlotte.

 

What found her in the low, warm light of the candle was the other woman fast asleep on the low chaise. In her hands was a book, the same one she’d been reading herself half-heartedly while having her tea. It was a book of verse, some slim volume that she’d taken with her from the estate. Her voice gone, Isabella quietly padded forward a few steps, looking all the while at the young woman who was reclined along the thin cushions. The chaise was not comfortable, but Charlotte slept with the pliability of someone who had often had to find slumber in uncomfortable places.

 

Her arms stretched unconsciously above her head, creating a halo of limbs about her hair, the styling come loose and spilling messily over the tough cushion. One leg had stayed within the parameters of the seat, the other dangling down with a stocking-clad ankle just visible under the skirt’s hem. The men’s jacket which had caught Isabella’s attention earlier laid over one of the chairs. A card game that she and Sophia had been playing that morning was still laid out on the table as though waiting for its players to return. 

 

If tonight had been haunted thus by ghouls a’plenty, this was an angelic visitation. Isabella took her shoes off and stepped into her house slippers, a pair of which she kept in here and in her bedroom. Very quietly, she sat kneeled down beside Charlotte who seemed deeply asleep if the evenness of her breath was any indication. She reached a finger out to lightly trace her brow, furrowed even in sleep. 

 

Her eyes fluttered and slowly, Charlotte came to, never flinching from Isabella’s touch. She licked her lips which, Isabella thought, did look a bit dry. 

 

“Oh. I’m so sorry,” She croaked out, voice still thick with sleep. 

 

“Why should you be?”  _ Why are you here? _

 

“I’ve likely drooled all over your fancy furniture. And I’ve overstayed my welcome. Have you just returned?” 

 

Isabella nodded. 

 

“I came here straight from the party.” She offered no explanation beyond that. 

 

“And you would rather sleep in my parlor than your own bed?” Isabella smiled.

 

“I wanted to see you.”

 

“You just saw me at the party… mere hours ago.” 

 

“You’re teasing me, Lady Fitz and I’m altogether too sleepy for it,” Charlotte laughed, pulling herself upright. 

 

“If you’re so sleepy, perhaps I should let you go back to sleep.” Isabella feigned to get up and Charlotte grabbed her wrist. 

 

“I didn’t get the chance to tell you, but this gown is perhaps more surprising than anything I wore tonight. The green suits you.”

 

“And the men’s tails suit you… Wherever did you find a piece like that?” 

 

Charlotte smiled. “Let’s just say I have my sources for this particular piece of finery and I won’t be sharing it lest you usurp my trendiness for yourself.” She paused a moment, then continued, growing serious: “Did you find the information you were looking for?” 

 

Isabella took the seat opposite the chaise. “Yes, I very much think so. Or, at least, a piece of it. In the ledger I shared with you, you might remember the first name listed-”

 

“Catherine,” Charlotte interrupted. 

 

Isabella nodded. “Yes, she’s alive.”

 

At that, Charlotte straightened. “You’re sure?”

 

“Mrs. May said so herself. She implied the girl, a woman now, is in dire straits and has asked after Harcourt as of late. She threatens some revelation which Mrs. May purports to keep hidden on his behalf.” 

 

Charlotte sighed. “So he let another lamb live. I wonder where she is... if we could get her to talk, and - if so - whether her word alongside ours would make any difference. Last year we had Fallon as collateral...” She trailed off and Isabella looked down guiltily. 

 

“Charlotte, I -” Isabella started. “No, don’t start apologizing again. I’ve had enough of that. What’s done is done and here I am still waking up on your chaise and employing your charms, so let’s leave it in the past.” 

 

Isabella acquiesced, bravely reaching a hand out to take Charlotte’s - the gesture in itself a way of saying sorry. Charlotte linked her fingers through Isabella’s before reaching over for a sip of her drink. 

 

“I hear you got into something of a tussle with my brother’s friend.” 

 

“You heard right. Glad to know Nancy is a gabber and a terrible confidante. I met two most curious men tonight, one of whom got met out of hot water with Lidington. His name is Lord Croft, James Croft - apparently prominent in government though I’ve never heard of him before tonight.” 

 

Charlotte continued: “He threatened Lidington with a rumor of illegal land purchases. Something that concerns me far less than his idiotic bloodlust, but apparently it scared him straight as he soon went scurrying away with his chosen girl.” 

 

“I know Lord Croft, though only by name and reputation. We’ve never formally met. But yes, he’s quite an up-and-coming force in Parliament. I’ll need to be in touch with him. The last thing we need is Lidington revealing to dear Harcourt that we’re planning something before I can let all the pieces land where they must.” 

 

Charlotte nodded. She hesitated a moment, fingers clenching in Isabella’s. “And Marie-Louise, what of her continued role in this?”

 

She sighed. “I’ll need to visit her again to solidify the trust with Mrs. May and try to find Catherine’s location. We have talked about this, but you know now even more than before that it is a ruse and nothing more?” 

 

Charlotte, looking abashed, nodded. “I do know that. You’ve been absolutely clear and I’m just being thick about it. I suppose it used to be me who was the harlot giving you the in you needed and now I’m not sure what role I am to play in all of this.” 

 

She looked down sadly at her lap where both their hands lay. Isabella understood then that this jealousy was borne of insecurity and frustration. Charlotte was not happy to play the small role, not because she was a warrior herself (though she undoubtedly was), but because it inverted her sense of self. And perhaps, the problem was larger than that. 

 

Just as Isabella’s life had drastically changed over the last year, so too had Charlotte’s. She’d lost her mother, gained a new profession and lost the old one, had more responsibility - though of a more mundane kind than fraternal murder, and was perhaps, just perhaps, lonely as she was. 

 

Isabella again traced Charlotte’s cheek, cupping the soft skin and forcing the woman to look up. “I cannot do anything that I do without you. It’s been you who has given me all this, the ability to act, to think for myself, to take a risk for the sake of others and not just myself. I need you most desperately.” 

 

Too late, she did not acknowledge the subtext of that. But Charlotte clearly did. Despite their conversation the other day, their agreement to cease this ardour, Charlotte leaned in to kiss Isabella lightly. It was nearly chaste, much like their first kiss, and Isabella could not help but draw parallels between that moment and this one. This time, it had been Charlotte who offered some bit of shame, something about herself that she perhaps had not shared with others, something she felt safe sharing with Isabella.

 

Unable to resist the warm light, the press of Charlotte’s hand against her neck and mouth against her own, and the syrupy heaviness of the moment, Isabella returned the kiss for a moment or so before pulling back.

 

“Charlotte…”

 

“I know. I know. No touching, you’ve made that much clear. I promise I didn’t come here to proposition you, but that’s now seeming like a more attractive prospect.” 

 

Isabella laughed, still wrapped up in Charlotte’s embrace and faintly earthy smell that emanated from the perfume on her neck. 

 

“It’s late… I can call you a carriage or, if you like, you might stay the night here -” Charlotte smirked. Stuttering, she went onto say, “I- I mean in one of the guest rooms. Of course.” 

 

“Why, my lady? Think you can’t keep your hands to yourself?” 

 

“I’m more worried about your fortitude than mine,” Isabella sniped back in humor. 

 

Charlotte laughed, a full belly laugh. “That you should be. Guest room it is… for tonight.”

 

She stood up and wandered over to the game table. “Before then, can I interest you in a midnight game of Hazard?” 

 

Isabella nodded. “That’s a ruinous game for us both, but yes. I think we’re in need of a distraction anyhow.”

 

The two women sat down to the game table where Charlotte handedly gathered up the cards and started dealing. Some time later, Andrew brought in two glasses of sherry. Isabella dismissed him for the night and the entire house was silent at last but for the shared laughter of Charlotte and Isabella betting only Isabella’s money between them, playing until the wee hours of the morning. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm sorry it's been so long on this one. But this chapter comes in over 10k words so hopefully that makes up for it! The show was... something this season. Hopefully will have an update of the S3 rewrite soon. This hasn't been as thoroughly edited as usual in my eagerness to get it up so ignore all mistakes and bad style! & please do feel free to complain about the show, tell me about your day, or even talk about the fic in the comments. x


	9. Tether

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief reveries and then a breath or two forward.

Where to find a woman who does not want to be found? More so, one who is actively hidden in a prison built of shame, violence, and treachery? These were the questions that now hounded Charlotte and Isabella as they sat around the breakfast table late the next morning. 

 

Sophia, Charlotte thought, looked first perplexed, then irritated at her presence. She believed Charlotte to have come for a visit early in the morning, though she had actually stayed the night. 

 

“Will you bring Jacob around again soon? My teachers always said that the brightest mind is the practiced and disciplined one. That’s why we have lessons six days a week and revision hours even on Sundays.”

 

Charlotte swallowed a piece of candied peach. “Of course. He’s been asking after you and your mother. I’m afraid I’ve deprived him of your consummate wit and beauty for too long now. Keeping it all for myself.” She winked at the girl. 

 

“Indeed…” Sophia trailed off, eyes flicking suspiciously between the two other women. Isabella appeared blissfully unaware of her daughter’s silent interrogation. She was instead tearing small pieces of sweet bread off and popping them into her mouth in the tiniest bites. Her eyes unsubtly stayed on Charlotte as her daughter and the other woman spoke of Jacob and his continuing studies. 

 

Charlotte thought Isabella wasn’t being very fair or wise. For one thing, she could hardly stand the attention - not when Isabella had put a moratorium on further intimacy altogether. Their kiss last night aside, the two had played cards and spoke of anything and everything, passing the time for the sake of it. The exhaustion of the night was such that even the revelation of Harcourt’s original sin, hidden away in some fortress of the city or living in squalor among the muck with the key to their freedom hidden in her throat, could not spur on further planning. They played cards and laughed over this or that triviality. Charlotte teased Isabella as she was wont to do and Isabella bit back with a humor henceforth unrecognized. Imagine her own shock that the lady could rile her so, when it had always been the other way around. But when talk was done and the candles burned down to nubs, they retired to separate beds. 

 

When Charlotte offered the lady her friendship last year, it was under the guise of being useful to one another. They’d rarely - if ever - sat like that, loosened by liquor and the late hour - just talking as people do all the time, wiling away hours like they had so many yet to spare. It was an illusion, but one Charlotte could allow - for her own sake and the lady’s.  

 

Life could not, after all, be only a series of climactic episodes. Even in the worst depths of despair and insurmountable defeat, one must take a breath or two, look around and regard the life lived between calamities. And she could think of no one with whom she’d rather bridge those gaps than Isabella, who continued to surprise her every day. Acerbic, to a point. But naive, still, blushing at Charlotte’s free-flowing innuendo as though she were not the woman tortured and caged in her brother’s house, but a mere girl, a slip who caught Charlotte’s eye one night at the gambling tables. What wonderful contradictions in such an unimaginable person. Charlotte once had thought her simple in a way - even when she had sought to free her, use her, console her. 

 

In her absence, she became simply enigma. That, in itself, was a tense contradiction. Rendered flat by her imperceptibility, Isabella upon her return to Charlotte’s life was no more than puzzle, wisp of smoke, sight unseen in the periphery of her mind’s eye. A premonition of that woman in the dark blue window at the Pleasure Gardens, half ghost, swept into the corners of the night to be forgotten yet haunting still. 

 

Now she felt herself comfortably asea, cresting over waves rather than drowning in them. The waters were not nearly calm and could not be known as a cartographer seeks to pin down the Earth’s storied peaks and valleys. But she was at peace with those depths - Isabella’s and her own. What a pleasure (she had forgotten) it was to get to know someone. To fool oneself into the recognition of a touch, a gesture, a freely given thought or utterance that could mean a thousand things or nothing at all. 

 

The intimacy she’d had in her life always came from close in: those who’d been with her since childhood; Lucy, Pa, Nancy, Jacob, sometimes Ma. Old friends like Kitty or Fanny. A cull was an object to her as much as she to them: a trick mirror in which her own reflection was distorted. And so she had been the same with Isabella - at first. Now, they at last were perhaps true friends: two people who could share disaster or boredom, a moment tedious or triumphant together without driving the other away. 

 

And despite herself, Charlotte could not help but wish to ignite that near-impossible co-existence, those wanton contradictions like fire kindling, with the spark - that which they had shared only once or twice before. She could not discard the first night or the afternoon in her room or last night’s kiss so easily. From the look on Isabella’s face this morning, she suspected the same was true for the lady. But Sophia’s side glances, increasingly more irate as their flirtatious dance went on, halted whatever she might otherwise do about it.

 

An unworthy excuse to further avoid those feelings, indeed. Charlotte promised the girl she would bring Jacob with her the next time she came to visit before feigning business that demanded her attention. She was otherwise too content to stay at the table, trading glances like some school girl with a woman who’d thrown her to the wolves a year ago, and who now faced those bared fangs with her once again. 

 

In the foyer, free from Sophia’s scornful eye, Isabella laid a hand on her shoulder, turning her firmly toward her in the doorway. “I return to Mrs. May’s tomorrow night for what I hope will be the last time. If Marie-Louise is successful, it will be dangerous for her to stay there and for me to return. I will instruct her to search through Mrs. May’s things, her papers, to see if there’s any sign or inkling of where Catherine is and what might have happened to her.” 

 

Charlotte nodded. Isabella continued, “I must speak to Catherine, face to face, but I do not think I can stand it if you are not there with me. I know it’s much to ask -”

 

Exhaling, Charlotte took both of Isabella’s wrists in her hands and bent down to lay kisses against her pulse points. “You need not even ask. Of course I will go with you. Even if she has no answers at all, perhaps she can lay something of his torture to rest in you.” 

 

Isabella’s eyes grew glassy, breath stuttering shallowly in her chest. Charlotte raised her hands to cup her face. “And if there is no resolution at the end of all this, know that I would follow you to those places you sometimes go, where I’ve seen you in that twilight world. At the estate that night, in your room. And perhaps I would be of no consolation or joy to you there. But I would sit with you and stay as long as you’d have me. You understand?”

 

Charlotte didn’t think even she completely understood the promise, but the lady apparently did. Isabella was crying, tears streaking and her own hands coming up to grasp Charlotte’s. Isabella leaned forward and kissed her, the press chaste with the brine of her despair. “Thank you,” she murmured. 

 

Rubbing at her eyes and cheeks, Isabella composed herself. “You offer me this yet I have nothing of worth to give you in return. Some paltry funds and a rattling chest full of guilt. Why do you persist with me in the face of that inequality?” 

 

She considered the lady a moment, the swollen pink of her eyes and cheeks clear behind the unpowdered face. This was Isabella in the safety of her home, her pristine daughter sitting just a room away. Yet, for the first time since their reunion, she was guarded, flinty, tense in anticipation for some fatal blow. 

 

“You need not give me anything. That’s not the point.” Charlotte sighed. “My entire life, my gifts and wares were given for a price named in ego and coinage. You must understand: perhaps you are selfish. As am I, in the eyes of some men, for living my life as I do, free to wear one set of shackles in exchange for another. If I can give anything to you, without illusions or lies, it’s because I want to… and is that not a boon to me? I would like to comfort you because it brings me solace: a gift given and taken for the self is still a gift.”

 

Isabella nodded, swallowing. Taking Charlotte’s hand, she squeezed once, hard, as though wanting to meld the two of them together as one. She showed her to the door, saying nothing more, and Charlotte swept out onto the pristine St James streets, the hanging promise finally spoken and stretching back between them as she walked home, an invisible tether. 

 

Charlotte returned to business as usual for the next week, running the house and putting Isabella and her visit to Mrs. May’s as far as possible from her mind. Nancy informed her the deed was done over supper: while Mrs. May was indisposed, Marie-Louise rifled through her desk drawers and located her financial records. Shockingly, the old bint kept fastidious details on money coming and going from her greedy clutches. 

 

“When you care for money over people as she does? It’s not so surprising,” Nancy reminded her. “Even your own mother kept clean log books as you must well remember. A task turned over, carelessly I must say, to you.” Charlotte was no good at balancing the books, resented the relentless penny-pinching and logging. Greek Street was in the green but how little or how much, she couldn’t exactly be sure. If the whole house of cards folded underneath her tomorrow, she’d deal with it like she’d handle an unruly cull or a stormy weather. She’d rather face the daily complications, big or small, than prepare tediously for an inevitable (and depressing) downturn. 

 

Broken from her reverie by a rowdy cull upstairs, Charlotte asked: “Did Marie-Louise find what she was looking for?” If she thought herself quick, Nancy’s smirk proved otherwise. She truly was asking after Isabella, as always.

 

“She seems to have found something. Marie-Louise took off at once this afternoon for Lady Fitz’s house, letting naught a soul but me know she was going. The lady, if satisfied, will buy her passage on the next ship across the channel. From there Paris then Toulouse, far from London and Mrs. May’s wrath.”

 

Charlotte nodded. If Isabella knew where Catherine was, they would need to act fast. Marie-Louise’s disappearance would certainly rile Mrs. May who in turn would start bleeding profits with the loss of her favorite girl. If she dug deep enough, in fact not very deep at all, she’d find their thinly veiled schemes eventually and her wrath was a nuisance they could not afford. 

 

The missing link now was the law itself. Charlotte was loathe to involve the courts, but how else to pin Harcourt for his crimes? Certainly no avenging harlots or victims, not even his curious but well-respected sister, could truly hold him. 

 

As yet, Isabella and Charlotte had kept the plot close to their chests, telling only Nancy of their plans. Even Pa and Lucy remained unaware - not because they couldn’t be trusted, but because Charlotte preferred them ignorant and therefore safest. Anyway, despite Harcourt’s crimes against humanity and the greater female population of London, his downfall still felt like Isabella’s business. Personal, somehow - not to be shared and shouted in the streets like Ma and Nancy’s protestations against the courts just last year. 

 

To make some progress, they needed more than just the elusive Catherine and her damnation. Their family friend in the law, Justice Hunt, had disappeared to some municipality up north. The closest thing to a possible ally was Lord Croft. Charlotte hardly knew him. Isabella had only heard of him. But his unprompted threat on Liddington made Charlotte think that he might be of some help. Anyway, he shared in common a secret beyond those they sought to uncover: his apparent amorous relationship with Fredo. Finding him would certainly be simple enough, but she needed Isabella’s help - the gravitas that came with her name and presence. 

 

More and more, as of late, it seemed she was leaving Fanny in charge of the house - but the girl was capable and outside of her family, Charlotte trusted nobody more with their house on Greek Street. It was still early yet and several culls were darkening their door. Charlotte pulled Fanny aside and gave her instructions, before grabbing her cloak and stepping out into the gravel street, making the walk to St. James’s.

 

The afternoon light grew weaker and weaker, the oncoming winter already whipping around the white-halled corners of Isabella’s new neighborhood, the threat of a knife’s blade in its sting. The lady’s carriage was parked dutifully outside, the horses pawing in boredom at the ground. At the door, she left her cloak with the footman and led herself down the hall to the grand parlor. 

 

The grand, white door was closed and from within she could hear murmuring voices. A lower one, undoubtedly Isabella, seemed urgent - but whatever she was saying was trapped by the thick wood of the shut door. The footman knocked politely and the voices within ceased. No sound could be heard for a moment or two before Isabella herself swung open the door, having apparently gotten up from her seat across the room. 

 

She looked annoyed at the interruption, the glare of irritation drawing her brows together, lips turned down. But Charlotte’s appearance calcified the look, turning it to stone for a moment before it melted away. Whatever ire she’d intended to expend on the footman died in her throat. 

 

“Charlotte…”

 

“Lady Fitz. I hope you don’t mind my interrupting when you have a guest.” Charlotte unintentionally bit the last word out. 

 

Isabella swallowed, glanced over her shoulder quickly, then ushered Charlotte in. “It’s no bother at all,” she said, though her eyes suggested otherwise. She stepped aside to make room for Charlotte, guiding her by the shoulder as the door behind them shut. On the low chaise in the farthest corner of the room, sat staring out a window at the last streaks of daylight, was a young woman - perhaps her own age - that Charlotte could only assume was Marie-Louise.

 

The two had never met face-to-face, but Marie-Louise was unfazed by her appearance. She turned slowly away from the view and took a hard look at Charlotte. “Bonsoir Madamoiselle Wells.” 

 

“It’s hardly good from the looks on both your faces. What happened?” Marie-Louise looked away again, lips pulled thin, saying nothing. Isabella merely shook her head before returning to her own seat on the same chaise. 

 

“Charlotte, perhaps it’s best if you wait for me in my quarters. Andrew will bring you there and get you anything you’d like.” _I have unfinished business here_ was the unspoken meaning. It was a demand, non-negotiable, and Charlotte bristled at the tone. In no mood to argue, she tipped her head down and swept back toward the door. 

 

The butler dutifully led her up the staircase, back down the hall that Isabella had proudly showed her upon her first visit, sweeping past the closed doors until they reached Isabella’s rooms. 

 

A pristine bedspread, not a dust mote out of place, the room was far less inviting without its patroness inside. Still, there were the books on the bedside table, the silver-potted tinctures at the boudoir, beyond another door undoubtedly a washroom just for Isabella. The room was far smaller than the one she’d occupied at the Blayne estate, but Charlotte much preferred these four walls. 

 

Fresh flowers stood sentry in large golden pots on either side of the door and in smaller ceramic vases around the room. The ghost of their scent was in the air and Charlotte, despite the sting of rejection she’d felt downstairs, relaxed into a cushioned chair beside the bed. Craning her neck back, she stared blankly at the swirling white plaster patterns on the ceiling before taking a deep breath.  

 

There might’ve been a snag in the plan, but Marie-Louise did not look especially perturbed. Perhaps, she simply had a stone face. She was French after all. Isabella, on the other hand, was an easy give and she’d seemed more exasperated than anything. Determined not to obsess over the conversation undoubtedly happening downstairs, Charlotte got up and went to Isabella’s bed. The frame was an expensive wood with a lacquered and painted finish. The spread’s silk surface was smooth as a still lake. So different from her own messy bed, the sheets and duvet always scrunched up and never properly made. Charlotte rarely let the girl they’d hired to help around the house into her room, demanding absolute privacy. 

 

Like a child, like some naive thing drawn to the simple pleasures of sight and touch, she ran a hand down the coverlet. On the bedside table, she gently tapped at the glass carafe, full of crystal clear water. She picked up the book curiously, turning it over once, then twice in her hands. It was heavy and, flipping through the first few pages, Charlotte realized it was a legal text. Not the most thrilling read, she thought, but perhaps Isabella was applying her expensive and formerly underutilized intellect to the hunt for legal recourse. Even in her nightgown, hair unspooled, the house dark and quiet and sagging beneath her, she was a woman on a mission. 

 

Charlotte smiled, returning the book to its designated place. There was still no sound of Isabella coming up the stairs. How long had she been waiting? Likely a half hour yet and those two were still not done with their business. Irritated again, Charlotte plopped herself down on Isabella’s bed, toeing her shoes off before swinging her legs up as well. If she was being made to wait, why not indulge in some of her lady’s fineries. 

 

With nothing to read beside the legal tome, Charlotte hummed a tune to entertain herself, but her lackadaisical hum was out of key. Ma, Luce, even Nance - all of them could carry a melody, but Charlotte was the tone deaf one. Giving up, she closed her eyes and leaned back against the heavy, feather-stuffed pillows. Out the window, she realized, was a kaleidoscopic view of London’s rooftops. Pretty as a painting, even with soot smoke rising out of endless chimneys. This was the slice of everything that Isabella saw, the last thing she saw perhaps, each night before she slept, and that brought Charlotte some comfort. It was not the pale imitation of serenity seen in the gardens of the Blayne estate, but an absolute peace: one that fought them and their freedom at every turn, but worth it all the same. 

 

Charlotte rested her eyes a moment before slipping - as one dipping below the surface of a warm bath - into a light sleep. Vaguely, the sighing life of the quiet house whirred deep in the recesses of her senses, but for the meantime Charlotte was content to float somewhere between the waking and the dead, surrounded by the impression (near invisible) of Isabella’s prone body in the sheets. Distantly, she was reminded of her afternoon naps at George Howard’s, how she’d spent long boring days simply sleeping away time that seemed never ending. Before she could once again squirrel away to some masquerade or gambling table where she might avoid his pathetic pawing. 

 

Behind the thin skin of her eyelids flashed picaresque visions of troubles new and old: Harcourt’s grip around her neck that night in the estate, her own hand around Quigley’s neck, Ma’s neck pulled taut by a rope, various violences transactional as their very business but corrupted by the cruelty of power. Blissfully, the flashes soon mellowed as her breathing grew deep and even - Jacob repeating back a bit of Shakespeare as Sophia corrected his diction, Lucy throwing back a full finger of gin and stumbling around the tavern, Ma humming something - time indeterminate as memory makes it, Isabella grinning victoriously - her hand won over Charlotte’s in Hazard. Rather than torrent, the memories were steady stream, flowing into each other until Charlotte could not pick them apart and did not care to. One by one they slipped away from her, as did consciousness. Finally, the inky cave of sleep and its empty promises. 

 

* * *

 

“You would place the priorities of a Wells woman over your own?” Marie-Louise jutted her chin out, eyes blazing fiercely into Isabella’s own. 

 

“I would do this for Charlotte, yes, but I would also do this for you. And myself. You must have realized that by now?” Marie-Louise shook her head. “It’s despicable,” she replied, “if what he did to this woman is true, what then Ma Dame? He will certainly come after us all.”

 

“Not if we can pin him. Charlotte and I may have the means to do so, though I will not have you . He will know nothing of you, dear, nothing. I’ve arranged passage on the next boat over the Channel and a stipend that will get you back to Lyon. From there, send word and I will send more. I’m nervous to send too much with you overseas.” Isabella reached for the woman’s hand. 

 

“But why pursue this vengeance when he has - for a year - left you alone with your child and your home? Yes, you may take him down but he’ll dig his claws in before it’s done.” 

 

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I still have no guarantees a year later and until I have them I will never be at peace.”

 

“And what of Charlotte’s role in this? She is the one whose ‘services’ you spoke of when we first met?” Isabella bristled at that. Service was not the word she’d use. Was it a service to laugh and partake in chaste company? To help one another? Marie-Louise, inadvertently, stoked Isabella’s ember-like fears: that when this was all done, Charlotte would like little to do with her. The plot, like payment, duly delivered, carried out along with Charlotte’s warmth in her life and home. 

 

Despite the other woman’s assurances, her words which struck against that insecurity with caring intention, Isabella couldn’t help but think on the past year - spent alone apart from Sophia’s treasured presence. Particularly, those weeks just after banishing Harcourt to France. Days toiling over contracts and securing her fortune, redecorating her new house, stepping gingerly down the halls as though still afraid of the hammer of her brother’s obsession. Sophia’s hesitation, the awkwardness of the meals they took together before she returned to her room or her school, unsure yet how to love a mother she’d never known. And Isabella, the same, unsure how to love a child not swept to the corners of her mind, one no longer watched from horseback in the park but close enough to touch, to kiss on the forehead and deny sweets before supper.

 

“Yes,” Isabella said. Because there was no other way to respond. Charlotte had been the one she’d alluded to and though Marie-Louise had proven herself a true ally, she did not wish to share anything more or less about her feelings with the woman. 

 

“Then she shall get her payment yet… I do hope for you both,” Marie-Louise mumbled before standing and walking to the table. Turning, she said: “I will leave tomorrow morning?” 

 

Isabella stood as well. “Indeed, you’re booked for passage on the first boat at dawn. It’s relatively modest but private quarters on the boat. You’ll find -” Isabella broke off and gestured to the papers on the table. “Those are your boat and train tickets alike. Nancy will deliver them to you at the docks. Bring what few possessions you can and evade Mrs. May’s gaze at all costs. This will be your last night in that house and your swiftest if you keep the prize in sight.” 

 

Isabella led Marie-Louise out into the foyer to bid her a polite farewell, but before she could give her customary goodbye, the woman grabbed her by the wrist. 

 

“Ma dame… There is very little to miss about this cursed country with its gale force misery and villainesses and villains alike, but if the mood ever strikes you to write with something more than funds, let it lead your pen to sprawl across the page. I should like, perhaps against wisdom, to remember these last days in England and you beyond what you can afford me in my new life.” 

 

Touched, Isabella nodded and - just as she would with Sophia - leaned forward to kiss Marie-Louise on the forehead. Silently, she led her by the elbow to the door and watched her climb into her carriage, departing once more for Mrs. May’s hell house for the last time.

 

Heaving a deep sigh, Isabella peered out the windows in the parlor as the late Autumn day turned grey as ash with coming dusk. Fetching the footman, she sealed Marie-Louise’s travel documents and pound notes into an envelope, which she handed off to him for delivery to Nancy Birch at Greek Street. 

 

Isabella, struck by that thought, realized Charlotte must still be upstairs waiting for her. She’d certainly taken her time sending Marie-Louise off and had very nearly forgotten the woman no doubt pacing back and forth in irritation. She’d sent her away to avoid a confrontation, unsure of how Marie-Louise and Charlotte’s forthright personalities would mix in her home, and also because Marie-Louise was anxious over Mrs. May’s apparent suspicions. Charlotte’s pragmatic edge, which verged occasionally into outright gruffness, would not help. 

 

And now, Isabella worried, she would be the one at its mercy. Deservedly so. In no hurry to further ignite her ire, she climbed the stairs to her room. Sophia was staying the night at her school, eager for some time with her friends, before returning tomorrow after her Friday classes. Isabella’s old worry, like a wound, had reopened. But Sophia was very nearly grown and had a life before her mother’s reappearance and Isabella could not very well deny her some friends her own age. The cold hall was, therefore, alive only with the faint noise of the lit lanterns and her own steps. 

 

Not bothering to knock on her own door, Isabella opened it gingerly, expecting a tirade or at least an aggrieved sigh - to be spoiled by the snappish side of Charlotte’s wit. But the room was as cold and calm as the hall and beyond the heavy door was a sight not unlike the one that had greeted her after the masquerade. 

 

Charlotte, asleep once again in her home. This time, she was curled up against the room’s chill - in Isabella’s bed. As though appearing from one of her idle daydreams, Charlotte’s hair - pulled from its usual styling by her apparent tossing and turning - astray on her pillow, her even breaths moving the coverlet just so, one arm outstretched in front of her and reaching for the bed’s edge. She was so still, Isabella hesitated to move a moment. Realistically, she should awaken the girl so that they could once again resume their plotting and planning, and discuss what Marie-Louise had gathered about Catherine from Mrs. May. 

 

The selfish part of her, the one that kept Charlotte for breakfast the morning after the masquerade, the side that could not help but to dwell on the possibilities of the woman in her bed despite her demand that they not partake in that intimacy with everything going on, kept her from shaking her awake. Instead, Isabella lit the bedside lantern and gathered her skirts before laying down beside Charlotte on the bed, reaching for her legal book though it bored her to tears. 

 

Her room, well-defined in daylight, grew fuzzy as darkness fell outside. The walls seemed incorporeal, the lantern illuminating only Isabella’s small corner of the world, it’s light reaching what was important: her book and Charlotte’s slack face now facing her, the woman having turned away from the chill drafting through the window. Contented by the room’s blanks, the intimacy of what she now could not see - how it framed what she _could_ see - Isabella grew tired herself of the legal drivel. 

 

Limbs and eyes heavy, Isabella let the book fall once more into her lap, giving up the task and craning her head back against the pillows. It was cold and she should very well be arranging supper with the staff and having the fires lit, but she could not bring herself to get up. Isabella knew Marin and the others would not come if they weren’t called for and so - with some certainty of the surrender - she burrowed further under the covers, pulling them up to her chin. Now on her side, she faced Charlotte, the other woman deprived of affected glamour in her slumber. Mouth parted, lip dry again, those deep blue eyes moving below the pale lids as though surveying the world in sleep as they did in waking. A vision, Isabella thought. An impossibility, a premonition and memory in equal parts, a moment so delicate in its very existence that Isabella herself scarcely breathed for fear of corrupting it. 

 

Their one night together, they’d slept very little, taken instead to ardor or aimless talk. Isabella had slept in the early morn at Charlotte’s insistence, but she sensed the girl was a kind of night creature who scorned rest. When she awoke, Charlotte had been half-dressed in her stays and robe already, sitting on the bedside chair pulling up her stockings and tying her garters. Not like now, finally at rest, her movements so slight so as to be nearly invisible in the deepening dark. She radiated warmth though and Isabella, shifted toward her as one raising palms to an open fire. It was instinctual, as human a reaction as someone like Isabella could have. And she would not deny herself this brief reverie, the culminating pleasure of simply wanting Charlotte beside her for so many months now at her literal fingertips. 

 

She felt that, even at this close distance, a thread of invisible silk laid between them. A slacken tether that strained when they were at odds but refused to break. They two, with so little in common, with so much bad blood between them - and blood itself as Isabella had been made aware of her entire life. The cold air, silken. The sheets, silken. And Charlotte’s hot breath, closer now as though the girl had moved in her sleep - silk. With the taste of it on her tongue, Isabella gave herself over to sleep. 

 

* * *

 

When she woke, the lamp had burned itself out and there was a moment of total disorientation before she registered, not where she was, but who was currently encircling her legs with her own errant ones. Isabella still faced Charlotte - if one could call it that when the woman’s face was pressed into her own neck, blowing hot wet breath into her skin. Her first instinct, despite everything that had changed in her life, was panic. In the estate, she rarely slept in pure darkness, often letting the lamps burn more and more oil, wasting it, so that she would never awake to her brother’s immaterial body - like a demon - hovering over her again. That panic gripped her, stiffened her back and halted her breath for a moment, before departing with a sigh. The hands on her back were slight, the legs registering through several layers of skirts (now embarrassingly bunched together under the covers) were slim.  

 

Her own hands, unsure of themselves, were folded against her own chest. Curse timidity, Isabella thought. Had she not been imagining this very situation with such obsessive fancy that its enactment called forth a kind of bodily memory? Isabella lifted her arms and curled one around Charlotte’s hip and another cupping the back of her neck, suddenly greedy for the impossibility of this intimacy. And how Charlotte responded, moving somehow closer to Isabella, back bowing, sighing, deep and reedy. Isabella answered it with her own, angling her lips against Charlotte’s hairline. 

 

To life, to life, every inch of her awake in the half slumber, a morning sun rising in her chest as night buried them in its rubble - as close as two lovers in the grave. Despite the morbidity of the image, Isabella thrilled at the thought: that they may never die, that they may die that very night, that they may do so together. A kind of romanticism she could hardly afford, costly in its absolute purity. Isabella let the hand at Charlotte’s neck run into her curly hair and this provocation brought Charlotte back from the post-mortem of sleep. 

 

“Isabella,” she whispered right into her neck. For once, Isabella was in no mood to talk or for the circles the two of them could run endlessly around each other - for her usual self-lacerating martyrdom of heart. She said nothing, simply pulling Charlotte’s head back by the hair gently and leaning down to kiss her. 

 

Languorous as one swims in familiar waters, Charlotte returned the kiss with an open mouth, hungry and searching, her hands moving from Isabella’s back to her hips. She pulled her closer and Isabella felt the discarded ache, what kindled insistently in her belly whenever they were together, return with force. And from the ache, a burn at once freezing and scalding, and a trickle as in ice melting on a garden lawn. Slipping lower making itself known in the press of her thighs. Rather than dissuade the woman, Isabella indulged Charlotte’s every whim, which at the moment included somehow pulling down the front of her gown, exposing her stays and chemise before forcing those down as well. 

 

Tongue laving hot stripes on Isabella’s neck before pulling the pale skin between her teeth and sucking, Charlotte’s impish hand moved from her hip to grasp her arse. She was becoming increasingly irritated with Isabella’s dress, huffing as her hands sought purchase through the voluminous layers. Isabella, meanwhile, was struck dumb by her desire. Every brush of Charlotte’s tongue, her hand, her smell like sea salt and rosemary, doubled the ache until it was very nearly the torture she remembered from that first night. 

 

Isabella was growing increasingly desperate as Charlotte finally pulled the front of her stays down enough to access her chest, skin blushing from the woman’s efforts. Leaning down, Charlotte took a peaked nipple in her mouth, blowing hotly on it before running a delinquent tongue around it, teasing against the sensitive skin while ignoring where Isabella needed her most. Isabella’s hand in Charlotte’s hair, no longer gentle, pulled and garnered a throaty groan which sparked down her back and flooded the ache that had grown unbearable now so as to consume her. Charlotte bit down on her nipple, breathing harshly through her nose, before flicking the tip of her tongue back and forth over it in playful apology. 

 

Unable to stand it any longer, Isabella bucked her hips into Charlotte’s thigh. Charlotte laughed, raising her head to look into Isabella’s eyes in the dark: “What happened to decorum, my lady? Shall we discuss this at some length over tea and scones instead?” Isabella shifted again at ‘my lady’ and let loose an embarrassing whimper at Charlotte’s teasing. 

 

“I’m afraid,” she gasped out, “you’ve begun to bore me with all this chatter, Miss Wells. Perhaps your sparkling wit was overstated by the Grub Street Press.” She ran a thumb over Charlotte’s lip, feeling her mouth pull back in a grin. “I think the rags have undersold my abilities, Lady Fitz. I’m not called the infamous C.W. for nothing. Perhaps, I can show you sometime.” They laughed, hushed to girlish giggling by the gravity of their shared desire. There would be time for talk plenty, but in this premature night it was as though time itself had laid down in the bed between them. 

 

Charlotte ran her hands up the back of Isabella’s gown to where the laces were pulled tight. She fiddled with the strings a moment in askance before Isabella nodded against her cheek. Charlotte rose first, pulling Isabella upright. Even in the dark, Charlotte moved swiftly - unlacing first her gown and then her stays with a precision telling of her trade. Quickly discarded were the pins in her hair and her stockings, legs bare underneath her chemise. She spun and returned the favor, clumsily, for Charlotte who did not abate Isabella’s inexperience with the filthy things she whispered in her ear as Isabella worked at her laces and hairstyling. 

 

“I’ve thought about this more times than I can tell you.” Charlotte exhaled the words against Isabella’s neck as she finally stood in her chemise and nothing more. “I thought of this after the Pleasure Gardens. Even when I wanted to hate you, I could not help myself wanting to touch you. I very nearly did that night.” Isabella wanted that, so badly, her thighs flushing below the cotton of her chemise and the evidence of her desire no doubt palpable in the air. And yet there was the tethered yearning, a mirror image of her ache that she could sense in Charlotte’s trembling frame, the scent of her sharper now there was so little between them. 

 

It was not in her nature, from birth, to demand anything. In fact, Charlotte had said time and again Isabella had no right to make demands of her. Yet, in this case, Isabella thought she might be excused for her hunger, for how she grasped again at Charlotte’s neck and arse, kissing her so deeply she thought neither might again draw breath. Using her superior height, she pushed the woman back down onto the bed, swinging a leg over her hips. Isabella craned down to kiss her, softly this time, before pulling the white muslin fabric from beneath her and over her head. 

 

Perhaps she surprised Charlotte with her brazen nudity, because the woman simply stared a moment before running her hands over the smooth skin of Isabella’s abdomen, cupping both breasts and pressing the pads of her thumbs into Isabella’s rosebud nipples. Not content to be distracted by this game now, Isabella took Charlotte’s hands and pulled them together over her head, kept bound by the soft touch of her grasp. Charlotte nodded, her demand permitted. And Isabella let her own mouth and hands run down to the woman’s more modest chest, licking and nipping as Charlotte gasped above her. 

 

The first night, she’d been so cautious, handling Charlotte as gently as the woman had treated her. They’d been establishing trust, truth, and protecting each other - not for the first time. Some understanding commanded their present rapport, where Charlotte knew implicitly to let Isabella bite at her rosy skin, will bruises to rise where she laid her lavish attentions. Down the woman’s torso she slid, not as Persephone returning to Hades or the boulder rolling away from hopeless Sisyphus, but as Orpheus looking one last time at Eurydice - willing to risk the end of everything for one last gaze, touch, unable to wait any longer to see his beloved. There, below Charlotte’s prominent hip bones and between her strong thighs, was the source of Isabella’s present obsession. 

 

Her musk made Isabella lightheaded a moment. What wonder, she thought distantly. The very center of her laid bare before Isabella. Charlotte’s hand finally came down to run through Isabella’s hair, not tugging but asking, pleading in the trembling of her fingers. When they’d been together before, Isabella had not been this close. She’d mimicked what Charlotte had done with her hand, hoping to satisfy in some way this avenging and impish beauty who’d turned her life upside down. 

 

She ran her lips up Charlotte’s thigh, taking her time, before spreading her folds with two fingers. Between them was beyond description, a beauty understood as one intuits the sun, the moon, the grass beneath one’s feet, the snow gathering of its own accord on the ground. She laved Charlotte’s hole, dipping in teasingly only to pull back when the woman was most desperate for her. Isabella nosed against the soft curls above her bud before flicking leisurely at what lay right beneath them. She alternated between fast and slow and did not relent when Charlotte moaned brokenly nor when she pleaded, pressing her hips upward into Isabella’s mouth. The other woman’s voice broke over the syllables of Isabella’s name, a siren in human form, compelling Isabella to give her whatever she desired, but particularly this. 

 

Her tongue drumming against the side of Charlotte’s bud, occasionally sucking her down, Isabella brought two fingers up to her entrance, asking permission before the woman bore down on them to the best of her ability. Charlotte was helpless below her, the presence that forced London to bow down to her beauty brought to whimpering and scratching at the sheets with curled fingers. 

 

To reassure or further connect, Isabella couldn’t say, but she grabbed one of Charlotte’s hands with her free one, knitting their fingers together. Tender and growing tenser, any decorum Charlotte feigned to maintain fell away the closer she got to the edge. The shake in her thighs was now in her whole body and inside her where Isabella could feel the quick of her fluttering against oblivion. Her cries came more freely as did Isabella’s name, which crested in Charlotte’s throat as she spent, shuddering from the inside, body given to spasms that seemed to bring Isabella even deeper within - to the very center of her. 

 

When her shakes quieted, Charlotte heaved a breath before pulling Isabella up by her shoulders from where she continued to kiss her thighs. “You’ll kill me yet,” Charlotte said, smiling into Isabella’s mouth. “Perhaps. I would avenge your death if so,” Isabella teased. Drawing a hand through her sweaty hair, Charlotte stared at her seriously. “I know you would, Isabella. I know you care about me truly.” 

 

“I’m sorry to have ever given you a reason to think I do not.” 

 

“I told you: no more apologies. Right now, the only thing I want is to be inside of you.” She shifted Isabella to her side, once again pushing a thigh between her legs. Rendered mute by the pressure, the strength Isabella had summoned minutes before left her, suddenly weak from Charlotte’s touch. 

 

Her mouth curved mischievously against Isabella’s before leaning down to suck a bruise on the base of her throat. Hands roamed back to her breasts, kneading with intention, brushing against nipples as though it were an accident each time. Charlotte moved slowly, driving Isabella to exultant irritation. Her body brimmed with the memory of the first night and Charlotte’s hand against her just a few weeks ago. She shone with the remembered pleasure she knew to come, the threat of it drawing shivers that had nothing to do with the night’s chill. 

 

She was embarrassingly wet, the product of lonely months spent denying herself any sort of satisfaction, even taken at her own hand, and evident in the quickening slick between her thighs. When Charlotte’s hand deigned to meander its way from her hip finally to her center, she heard the woman hum with satisfaction. Charlotte’s fingers dragged along her, in no rush to reach their destination, despite Isabella’s urgent hips and mouth. Kissing again, recklessly, a dissolution of borders between her mouth and Charlotte’s and then finally _finally_ the pressure she’d been desperate for. Slim fingers parting her, two inside and the base of Charlotte’s hand rubbing against her bud. 

 

It was so long anticipated, it nearly hurt. But this was not the pain she remembered too well, that she could not forget, nor the ache left by its present benefactor’s absence, but an entry and re-entry, the coming and going out Charlotte’s breath in her mouth, her fingers scissoring within her, their skin soaking and silken against each other with sweat. The other woman whispered morsels of nothing in her ears, meant to be heard and not comprehended, until she gave the command: “come.” And Isabella did, in waves that rocked them both. 

 

When it was through, there was the chorus of their heavy breathing and nothing more. For awhile, they were silent in voice and gesture, still as two women turned to stone by Medusa’s glare - as bright as the full moon through the window. At last, Charlotte pulled back to let their sweat cool, staring readily at Isabella who - though bashful that first night - looked long back at her. 

 

“So much for holding off until your brother’s behind bars,” Charlotte said. 

 

Isabella laughed. “I’m not sure I was being very realistic, considering your…”

 

“Considering my what? How about considering your insatiability? I was just a mere maiden an hour ago…” They dissolved into a fit of giggles before coming back together under the sheets. Charlotte rested her head against Isabella’s chest, lazily running a fingertip in circles around her belly button. “You certainly distracted me from my annoyance earlier.”

 

“You distracted me by falling asleep in my bed. Not exactly the method of a ‘mere maiden’ as you claim to be.” Charlotte smiled before sobering.

 

“What then of Marie-Louise?” 

 

“She leaves tomorrow morning. Your Nance has the tickets she needs for passage and is meeting her at the docks.” 

 

“So, she found the information we needed?”

 

“Catherine’s last name is Atkinson. She came from a family of some industrious means and was brought under Mrs. May’s control by her father who, like Quigley’s, employed the hag’s… services.” That word again. Isabella grimaced. She continued: “Marie-Louise made what I consider to be an error by getting the witch drunk after supper last night and asking her outright about her greatest failure. Cunning but perhaps not cunning enough. Catherine’s legs are both broken, undoubtedly by my brother. She thought him her entry to a life of luxury, but instead he fathered a stillborn child and broke her legs when the child was dead from the start.”

 

Charlotte pulled back and looked up at Isabella. “His cruelty knows no bounds.” 

 

“Yes,” Isabella nodded. “And it’s quick to return to us. Mrs. May unfortunately took my advice too literally at the masquerade. She wrote to Harcourt herself, saying that she saw me and that I was employing her best girl. What Marie-Louise _did_ find in Mrs. May’s desk was a letter from him. He’ll be back to London within the month.”

 

Charlotte swallowed hard. “Then we must act quickly.” 

 

Isabella blinked up at the ceiling. “Yes, but first some supper. The staff is likely flummoxed at my disappearing act. How about some pastries in bed?” Charlotte smiled. 

 

“How indulgent! No roast duck?”

 

“Now, now… don’t be getting greedy with my fortune, Miss Wells.” 

 

Isabella threw on her nightgown over her chemise and pulled a robe around her shoulders. She ventured out to find Andrew who might bring them something to eat. After all, one hunger spawns another. They sat cross legged in the bed, the silver tray between them, stuffing their mouths with savory meats, breads, and pudding like two children with no cares in the world. 

 

Then it was back to bed, this time for sleep only. Despite the worry and phantom fears, they slept soundly - wrapped up in each other. 

 

* * *

 

Like a lovable gnat that hung around one’s face in the summer heat, Nancy showed up at Isabella’s early the next morning. Charlotte was careful to dress them both as neatly as possible, but still Nancy smirked at her, the look in her eyes saying _I know what you’ve been doing and it’s not plotting vengeance_. 

 

She delivered the news of Marie-Louise’s deliverance and her parting warning that Mrs. May would likely catch them in the act if they went on being careless. “Rich coming from her when she decided to ask ‘M’ about Catherine face-to-face,” Charlotte snorted. 

 

“That’ll be enough from you on that poor girl,” Isabella replied, smoothing a hand over Charlotte’s thigh, a gesture that wasn’t missed by Nancy’s keen eye. Charlotte frowned, affronted at Isabella’s calling the French bitch a ‘poor girl’. But she _had_ proven useful and Charlotte could not begrudge her, for obvious reasons, her elsewise intentions toward Isabella. 

 

“She’s not entirely wrong. You’ll need to move quick and be careful from here on out if what she has to say is true. Your incubus of a brother soon approaches and we’ll need to have the law ready to apprehend him when he steps off the ship.” Nancy stared the both of them down.

 

“Very well. Isabella and I will pay Catherine a visit today if you, Nancy, will go on my behalf to Rasselas and ask him about a mollyboy named Fredo. We’ll need him and his companion Lord Croft in the days to come.” Nancy nodded and bid the two farewell. 

 

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to go home and freshen up before we go to East London, Charlotte?” Isabella asked the question so delicately, as though afraid Charlotte might actually take her up on the offer. 

 

“No need. Your staff is vastly larger than mine. I’ll let you spoil me awhile longer before we open this hell gate once again.” Isabella gifted her with a mischievous smirk. 

 

“I’m afraid I can’t offer you my _services_ again Miss Wells, so soon. You’ll need to court me before you see my rose fully bloomed in the midnight sun, as they say. I wouldn’t know anything about that…” Charlotte shook her head. Isabella with a sense of humor was incorrigible. 

 

She raised a hand to cup the lady’s cheek. “I adore you. You know that?”

 

Isabella smiled brilliantly. “I'm realizing that.”

 

She grabbed Charlotte’s hand and dragged her back up the staircase where they might prepare themselves for the next battle to come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I figured I would let them do it already. It's been long enough I think. A few more pieces otherwise falling into place. Let me know what you think in the comments, I really do love to read them x


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